


Whalesblood and Teeth

by Lordki



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Corvo cannot remember the Heart, Corvo joins the Bottle Street Gang, Drowning, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, High Chaos (Dishonored), High Overseer Martin, M/M, No cure for the plague, Outsider worship, Post-Dishonored, Sex, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence, but it comes back to haunt him, dark and stormy and full of pain, sequels? what sequels?, the Outsider is a devious bastard, this is gonna be a long ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 74,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4428989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordki/pseuds/Lordki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dunwall has fallen. There is no cure for the plague, no end to the gang wars, and no Empress. Corvo Attano, the man who lost everything, still fights for redemption in a city he no longer recognizes. But something is brewing beneath the waves. The Void threatens to consume the waking world. Faced with the end of all things, Corvo discovers that there may be a way to undo the past, to save his family. But second chances only ever come at a high price...<br/><br/><em>One day, this place will devour all the lights in the sky.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taste for Blood

          The city was dead. Gone. It finally collapsed in a quiet end, echoed by the fading screams of the plague. What remained was a dark hole where bloody fights raged on every street. There was no Empress, no empire. There was only the gaping maw of death and its putrid shadow. Survivors fled in droves, or picked a side in the gang wars. The dead walked and the rats became rulers of the land.

          Strange things crept up from the cobblestones. Ghostly shapes of slaughtered whales flickered over the derelict ships in harbor. Dark figures shuddered and disappeared on the edge of sight. The Abbey preached fervently against talk of such things: it was all imagined, a trick of the mind. Others said all signs pointed to disaster. The Void was overtaking the waking world, they whispered, and the Outsider himself walked among them. If they only knew.

          The hush of sunset blanketed the streets, deep shadows driving the living into their homes. Boats fled from the river, whose waters grew silvery and impenetrable in the light. High above, the gleaming towers of Kaldwin's Bridge stood unfinished, reminders of a time before the plague.

          Perched on the steel superstructure, a dark-clothed figure leaned forward and watched for movement. The grassy yard below was seemingly empty, a smear of green between the bridge and the streets. He knew better. He had been tracking his targets for days. They were hiding, waiting for him to make a mistake. He would not give them the satisfaction.

          There was a stinging in his left hand as the jagged mark beneath his knuckles began to glow. He was not alone.

_What do you hope to gain, Corvo?_

          The voice ringing in his ears was distant, high-pitched and soft spoken. It buzzed with an inhuman vibration.

_What good will it do?_

          Drawing a deep breath through his nose, the former Lord Protector stared straight ahead and tried to ignore the voice. He had no answer for it. He had already lost everything. But this was a matter of pride, or maybe it was something of revenge.

_You had your chance for revenge already, and you squandered it. What is it you want?_

          There was a shift in the overgrowth below, barely perceptible. Corvo lifted a hand to his face, where the tarnished horror of a mask covered his features. He twirled a gear and his vision focused, enhancing the greenery between bombed-out buildings. Peeking out from behind a piece of twisted metal, a head obscured by a whaler's mask glanced nervously up at the bridge.

          With a quick flick of his wrist, Corvo lifted his crossbow and fired. The action was mechanical, precise. The whaler's mask snapped back as the target fell, a metal bolt buried in his eye.

          There was a flurry of activity in the yard. Ten, then twenty figures appeared from nowhere, snapping into existence with a familiar rush of black smoke. Corvo twirled the dial on his mask, bringing his vision back to normal. He shifted his feet. The figures in the yard, all similarly clad in tattered remains of whalers' suits, were preparing to advance on the bridge. They wouldn't get the chance.

          The voice in his head gave a short huff of laughter, or disappointment. Corvo hung his crossbow in its place on his back and drew his sword, the blade clicking sharply into place. He lifted his left hand and the Outsider's mark ignited with a bright golden light.

          Pushing off hard, he leapt from his perch and pulled at the air, marked hand closing around nothing and yet finding a hold some fifty yards ahead. He launched through the sky like a shot, and had a clear view of the sun setting over Dunwall before he looked down. At the turn of his hand, time slowed, and he aligned himself over the head of a man far below. He reached and pulled for the ground. Time rushed back into pace.

          Corvo slammed into the man's head feet first, feeling the skull crack. Another whaler closed in on his left, and Corvo swung his sword arm in a wide arc. The whaler's head fell free of his body, landing with a crunch a few feet away. For just a moment, the figures surrounding him froze in horror. Corvo smiled.

          The crowd pulsed forward but he was already up and running, slicing a man's throat on the way. He headed for the streets, where a tangle of half-crumbled buildings stood between the bridge and the Southside Gate. There was a cry of "Don't lose him!" from behind, which almost certainly meant they had lost him. He glanced up at an overhanging balcony and reached for it. He blinked and stood on its railing, then ducked down.

          The assassins caught up in the street below, spreading out to find him. A few of them appeared on the surrounding rooftops. They were quick and well-trained, making fast sweeps through the abandoned buildings. They would find him soon enough. He crouched low, making his way into the apartment beside him, and took stock of a hole in the ceiling. He climbed up and found himself across the room from an assassin. The woman had her back to him, anxiously scanning the street and leaning halfway out a window. He crossed the room noiselessly and drove his sword through her ribcage.

          She let out a gurgling cry, not nearly loud enough to alert the others. Corvo grabbed the back of her head.

          "Daud," he demanded.

          "He's... not here," she choked.

          "Try again," he gave the blade a slight twist.

          " _Cchk_ \-- the-- gatehouse..."

          He released his sword long enough to break her neck. He retrieved the blade and glanced around, taking note of the increasing number of rats trickling into the room. They were a constant presence underfoot, now that the plague had claimed Dunwall. Corvo suspected some of the smarter ones might be following him. He took a step back and a few of them made an exploratory dash to the fresh corpse.

          So Daud had come to personally finish him off. Corvo was sure he ought to be flattered, but the notion of seeing the man again was so bitter it made him grimace. He had regretted, in the months following the fall of Dunwall, not killing Daud when he'd had the chance. He had stood, triumphant, over the man who'd taken the Empress from him. The hired blade had propped himself against the wall of a decimated manor, maimed and bleeding, and offered himself up for slaughter. Daud, the greatest assassin of the age, had surrendered. And Corvo had walked away.

          Had he known then what would happen, he would have slain Daud on the spot. He might yet have another chance, he reminded himself. The whalers certainly seemed eager enough to kill him.

          The rats began to move in, nipping at his heels and spurring him into motion. He took careful steps toward the window. Most of the assassins had taken up watch on the rooftops.

          He drew his crossbow again and fired three quick shots in rapid succession. He climbed out the window and blinked down into the cobbled street, followed by the thud of three bodies. A lone whaler ran at him, shouting, and he fired a bolt through the man's neck.

          The figures on the rooftops ran toward the gate, while the dozen or so on the ground surrounded Corvo with a series of fluttering noises. Their form was sloppy, Corvo noted, their bodies taking a moment too long to reappear. They seemed to be new recruits, less confident than the rooftop team. They would not have the opportunity to improve.

          Corvo raised his marked hand and formed a fist. At his behest, time slowed almost to a stop, the motion of the world halted and flickering in and out of the Void. He reached into his coat and produced a grenade, pulling the pin and holding it in the air before his face. It hung in place even when he let go. Sidestepping around the live grenade, he backed out of the frozen circle of assassins and held up his bow. He fired a bolt and it twirled, suspended.

          Once he had moved a few yards away from the cultists, he observed his work. The angle looked right. He relaxed his hand and time resumed. The bolt sailed, hitting the grenade with a thunderous burst of fire and shrapnel. Bodies flew in every direction, many of them in pieces. Corvo turned away, grateful for the ensuing silence. He hated having to kill the stragglers.

          He moved with purpose toward the Southside Gate, where a closed metal door waited.

          Daud. The name repeated in Corvo's head like the recoil of a gun. Daud. Daud. Daud the killer. Daud the blade. Daud, who was just now stepping through the gate door, his hands held calmly at his sides and sword still in its sheath.

          Corvo was surprised enough to pause. He stood in place, watching as the assassin pulled the door shut behind himself and strode casually forward. Daud was unhurried as he approached, stopping mere feet away only to cross his arms. He watched Corvo with a dark, appraising look.

          "Attano. I thought we'd settled this."

          Daud looked worse than Corvo had ever seen him. A fresh scar twisted the skin of his forehead, still red and puckered. The man's eyes were sunken, the dark circles beneath them bruised the color of an angry sea. He moved stiffly, taking a few long strides forward. His gait leaned to one side, favoring the shoulder Corvo had plunged his sword through months before. Corvo wondered briefly if the wound had not healed properly.

          "So did I," he replied, voice low and distorted by his mask.

          Daud's eyes narrowed, "Did you spare me only to hunt me down?"

          "You said you would leave Dunwall."

          "What does it matter now?" Daud had the audacity to ask, and Corvo's blood ran hot with anger, "Gristol, Serkonos, one cesspool is as good as the next."

          The tilt of Daud's head and the sureness of his voice were enough to spark rage in Corvo's chest. He adjusted his grip on his crossbow, wishing he'd thought to draw his sword. It was unlikely Daud was so out of form that he'd let Corvo shoot him.

          "Whatever you think I've done," Daud continued, "I can assure you, I haven't. My people have done nothing but defend our district. At the cost of many lives."

          He aimed an accusatory glance at the street behind Corvo, where the corpses of his whalers still smoldered. It was only a matter of time before the rats arrived.

          "Your district," Corvo echoed bitterly, "Not one brick of this city is yours."

          "No. Not yours either. Yet here we are, fighting over it."

          Corvo raised his crossbow, taking swift aim at Daud's head. It was an empty threat, however, and Daud knew it. Far from being concerned, Daud merely glanced away and walked past Corvo toward the edge of the street, where the view of the harbor was wide and shining in the sunset. The shadows of the buildings were growing long around them.

          "I'm not interested in a war with you," Daud said, and Corvo lowered his crossbow, slinging it over his back with a huff of frustration, "You might still want me dead, but I'm not going to fight you."

          Corvo glanced over Daud's back. He took a wary step closer, unnerved by this display of trust. Daud was suddenly very accommodating for a man who had sent a small army of fighters to meet him.

          "Leave my people alone," Daud continued, "and they'll stay out of your way. If what you want is personal revenge, well... you let me live once. Of course, that was before."

          Daud turned to look at Corvo, and there was a terrible mix of distrust and sympathy in his eyes. Corvo took a moment to control himself, grateful for the expressionless veneer of his mask. He buried a brutal urge to slice Daud's throat.

          The assassin shook his head, "This... business has taken too much from you. I know the feeling."

          That was enough. Corvo launched forward, so quickly that Daud took a step back in shock. The assassin raised his arms, but he was far too slow. Corvo's left hand closed around the man's throat, his right hand flicking his sword into place and bringing it level with Daud's eye. To Daud's credit, he only flinched once.

          "Stand down," Daud said out of the corner of his mouth, addressing the unseen whalers who were likely taking aim at Corvo's head.

          "You cannot imagine the feeling," Corvo hissed, tightening his grip until Daud was struggling for air.

_Well, Corvo? You have him now. Can you do it, I wonder?_

          "I should feed you to the rats," he continued, and the mark on his hand flared brightly as if in agreement. The fleeting light illuminated Daud's face, whose eyes seemed to glass over in anticipation of an immediate death. Corvo steadied his sword.

          "What--" Daud wheezed, "do you-- want?"

          "Tell your people to clear out of Bottle Street's territory."

          "Heh-- is that it--?"

          Corvo cut off Daud's air supply and the man gasped, turning red. As his mouth opened and closed, Daud clawed at Corvo's wrist, attempting to break his grasp. When Daud's face began to go slightly purple, Corvo released him. Daud fell to his knees, coughing and taking deep, rattling breaths, his hands planted in the dirt. Corvo knelt down so they were level.

          "I came here intending to kill you today. Don't mistake my mercy for weakness."

          "Once-- is mercy," Daud rubbed his neck, "twice-- is weakness. Or maybe you-- have someone staying your hand."

          Daud glanced up at him, "Are you still-- under the Outsider's thumb?"

          Corvo met his gaze until Daud looked away. After a few moments of regaining his breath, Daud pushed himself up with a grunt and swayed into a standing position. Corvo stood smoothly, blade still drawn and glinting in the low sun.

          "Alright..." Daud finally said, an edge of frustration to his voice, "tell your Bottle Street Boys that the district is theirs, if they can keep it. Give Slackjaw my regards."

          Corvo let a breath of dark amusement out through his nose. Daud looked as if there was something else he wanted to say, but he apparently reconsidered. Instead, he signaled with one hand, presumably telling his whalers to back off.

          "You know," Daud ground out, "you and I have more in common than you think."

          "You've said that before."

          "And I'm right. Especially if you're selling yourself to people like Slackjaw."

          "That's not our arrangement."

          "Isn't it?" Daud met Corvo's glare full-on, "You think that butcher is any better than I am? Than the High Overseer?"

          Corvo shot a hand out and grabbed Daud by the collar. Daud did not struggle, eyes scouring Corvo's mask as if he might find some trace of the face beneath.

          "We're all butchers," Corvo told him, "but Slackjaw never laid a hand on my family."

          He shoved Daud back. The assassin righted himself easily, watching Corvo as if he'd never quite seen him before. Daud's mystified stare grew immediately unbearable. Corvo turned on his heel, walking back toward the bridge.

 _Your family,_ cooed the Outsider, _Feeling sentimental today?_

          "Enough," Corvo muttered, and the faint buzzing in his head faded away.

          He would pay for that admission later, he figured, either by Daud's hand or the Outsider's disdain. He realized that his hands were still curled into fists. With effort, he stretched his fingers. It would be a long journey by foot back to the distillery. He concentrated on walking, one foot ahead of the other, ears pricked for the scurrying of the rats.

 

* * *

 

_"Corvo! Corvo, help me!"_

_He knew the moment his foot hit the hard metal of the walkway that he would not make it. No matter how fast he moved, no matter what kind of power he had, he would never reach her. He raised his hand to slow time and the mark burned so hot that his hand felt as if it had burst into flames._

_For a fraction of a breath, Corvo was unsure if time had already stopped or if he could not longer feel it pass. The wind, the height, the crowding sky all felt far away, as though he were watching the scene from a distance. Then the color fled from his vision._

_Time wavered and slowed at the exact moment Emily let go of the ledge. She was frozen there, with her hand outstretched. Corvo tried to blink forward, to reach her, but the mark turned dark and cold. His body was too exhausted to call forth the Void. He sprinted, eyes on her suspended form through the meshed steel beneath his feet. She had never looked so small._

_He was within steps of the edge when he felt his power failing him. He threw himself down to catch her, arms reaching uselessly as time accelerated. His hand brushed the tips of her fingers and then she was gone, falling, screaming his name. He tried to blink after her, but no power came to him. He was paralyzed, lying there with his arms outstretched and shaking. His mind was telling him to jump. He couldn't move._

_"Corvo!" her voice was still screaming in his ears, "Please!"_

_Why couldn't he have jumped?_

_"Corvo?"_

_Why couldn't he have just...?_

          "Corvo!" sounded a rough voice just beside his head, "Outsider's eyes, wake up!"

          He started awake, one hand flying to his sword before it was stopped by a grip around his wrist.

          "Easy," Slackjaw was leaning down over him, strong fingers encircling Corvo's arm, "you were shoutin' in your sleep."

          Regaining his bearings, Corvo took a few deep breaths while meeting Slackjaw's concerned gaze. The other man released him and stood up to his full height, crossing his arms.

          "You scared the shit out of the boys."

          Now he remembered. He had made it to the distillery in the middle of the night, crossing the open yard unnoticed. The few Bottle Street Boys still on the premises at that hour had greeted him with their usual suspicious grunts and proceeded to ignore him. He'd made his way to Slackjaw's office without a second thought. He had fallen asleep sitting on the cot in the corner beneath the stairs, mask in his lap.

          Careless, he thought, frustrated with himself. Slackjaw watched him for a few seconds more before crossing to the desk in the center of the room and busying himself glancing over the papers piled there. It was a deflection that neither of them bought.

          "Some job you musta pulled last night," Slackjaw said casually, covering a dark lilt to his words that suggested something was wrong, "those whaler bastards disappeared without a trace."

          Corvo made a wordless noise of approval, mind still reeling with images of Emily's tiny figure fading into the mist over Kingsparrow Island.

          "You alright?" asked Slackjaw, and the question was so unexpected that Corvo could only turn and stare at him.

          Slackjaw waited patiently, muscular arms leaning on the desk. The street wars had been kind to him, in a way. He had a few new scars, but they were disguised by a well-groomed beard and slightly finer clothes. He'd become a better fighter recently, to Corvo's equal concern and approval. Now, however, his body language was all worry and no fight. He frowned at Corvo until he received an answer.

          "Bad memories," Corvo sighed, "nothing more."

          "Good. I need you focused. The Abbey's bound to notice Daud's retreat, if they haven't already."

          It was likely they had. Slackjaw was right to be concerned. In the wake of the failed coup, the Overseers had skyrocketed to power with alarming speed. Dunwall's people turned to the church to keep them safe from the plague, from the Outsider, from each other. When news broke that the City Watch had been Burrows' personal death squad, civilians began to fight them in the streets. The men of the Watch had defected in droves, many of them joining the Overseers. The Abbey of the Everyman now boasted a force that was essentially an army.

          Corvo stood up, stretching his back. He set his mask down, then unbuckled his weapons belts and let them slide to the floor, "What time is it?"

          "It's morning. Bread and fruit over there, if you want it. Come look at this."

          Slackjaw spread a map over the desk. There were marks on the paper, red circles and arrows pointing in a hundred directions.

          "My men been tracking Overseers all over this district. Those metal-faced fools can't scout worth shit, leave a trail like a weeper every time they come into our territory. They've been making circles here--"

          His hand traced an area on the far side of Clavering Boulevard.

          "-- and here."

          This time he pointed to the districts between the distillery and the Bridge.

          "Why?" Corvo asked, pocketing a pear and looking at the familiar streets as if their names would reveal anything.

          "That's what I wanna know," Slackjaw said bitterly, "they're skirtin' our borders, sure, but they're not out in force, so they ain't lookin' to invade."

          "Then they're searching for something," Corvo agreed, and Slackjaw nodded beside him, "Something they think you might have."

          Slackjaw gave him a careful look, "What makes you think they ain't comin' after you?"

          "They're too afraid," Corvo replied without a hint of pride.

          Slackjaw laughed, an honest, throaty laugh he only let out behind closed doors, "Well, you've done a nasty number on their ranks. I'd be afraid too."

          That was good to hear, Corvo thought distantly. They worked well together, he and Slackjaw, but it was never far from either man's thoughts that the other might betray him. It was an unspoken bond between them, _cross me and I'll gut you_. Corvo had suffered enough betrayal in his lifetime. He was not about to let his guard down around a man who made his reputation murdering and extorting.

          "If it's not you," Slackjaw rubbed a hand over his beard, "then I don't have a damn clue what Martin's looking for. And I don't like not knowing."

          Corvo made a wordless sound of agreement. Teague Martin was the only man who had ever double-crossed him twice. Once, Corvo had been left half-dead and floating on the river, and the next time he'd found himself the personal target of the High Overseer, despite their verbal agreement they would steer clear of each other.

          "You lived to regret lettin' him go, I reckon," said Slackjaw, reading Corvo's expression.

          "Mm. What's this?" Corvo pointed to a black spot on the map, well outside the reach of the red lines.

          "Eh," Slackjaw drew back in disgust, "nothing. My idiot boys bein' a bunch of superstitious children. They tailed some Overseers an' found a witches' shrine in the old shoe factory, whale bones and the like. Swore they heard whispers, or singin' or something. I told 'em to leave it alone."

          Corvo nodded, making a note to himself to look into this shrine later. His mark grew warm and he covered it absentmindedly with his other hand.

          "So," Slackjaw turned around and leaned his back into the desk, half-sitting on the edge of the map, "I need someone to find out what old Martin's up to. Someone good at sneakin' around without getting caught, and killing people without much fuss. You know anyone like that?"

          Corvo awarded him a muted laugh, "I might."

          Slackjaw smiled, not the toothy grin he awarded strangers, but a lopsided smile that reached his eyes. When he leaned forward, he was close enough for Corvo to see the deepening lines of his eyes where they extended toward his temples.

          "Good," Slackjaw's breath smelled of whiskey and fruit, "and make sure you get that ass of yours back here in one piece, eh?"

          Corvo tried and failed to come up with a clever retort. Instead, he edged past and grabbed his gear, taking a moment to put his mask on. He flipped his hood up, hearing Slackjaw chuckle to himself. He had more important things to deal with than the crime boss's advances. He made his way to the door, raising one hand as a silent farewell.

          If he was going to find out what the Overseers were after, he mused as he trotted up the back stairs, he had two options. One was to stake out various points along the expanse Slackjaw had outlined for him. The other was to break into the Office of the High Overseer and ask Martin personally. Security had tightened around Holger Square since the days of the 'loyalist' conspiracy. It would take hours to get past even the outer gates.

          The city it was, then.

 

* * *

 

  
          The streets were all but deserted. Though he was in a residential district just south of the bridge, the windows were mostly dark and the day was quiet. Corvo made cautious progress, walking along the cobblestones and noting the buildup of trash. This place had been the epicentre of the plague outbreak. Most survivors had fled long ago, and those still living here were either too poor or too stubborn to leave.

          He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating. When he opened them, he saw in the strange yellow-grey vision of the Void. There was nothing alive on the streets, save for a few rats. Several apartments above held corpses. He let his vision fade back to normal and made his way forward.

          There was a sudden buzzing in his head, and an uninvited voice chimed, _At it again, aren't you Corvo? Trying to set things right, even at the end of days._

          "Who says it's the end of days?" Corvo asked, but his voice lacked conviction.

_I see all. The country eats itself from within. Dunwall is not the first to fall. The flow of history is inevitable._

          "What does that mean?" Corvo sidestepped an overturned City Watch barrier.

_There has always been a city here. It has always fallen._

          Sighing, Corvo resigned himself to the unsatisfactory answer. Conversations with the Outsider were futile at best, maddening at worst. It seemed to Corvo that, at times, the ancient one behaved more like a teasing child than an all-knowing deity.

          The wide street veered to his left, while a narrow alley ahead promised a shorter route to his goal. He took the alley and eventually blinked up to the rooftops, avoiding a few weepers and their accompanying cloud of flies. A tall, chimney-dotted building rose above the rowhouses, striking even with its collapsed roof. That had to be the old shoe factory.

          Dropping down to the street, Corvo crossed silently through a few burnt out houses before arriving at the broad side of the factory. A wall of arched windows stretched skyward before him. He picked one and made a running leap, catching the ledge and pulling himself up. A distant tinkle of falling glass rang from inside the building.

          He looked down over a sprawling factory floor, littered with dusty worktables and abandoned boots. It did not look lived in. If there were witches here, there was no sign of them. Corvo willed his eyes to cloud and glanced around with his darkened vision. Not even a single rat moved in the silence. But he could hear, from far below, the high-pitched melody of an ancient rune. He closed his eyes, listening. The bone sang to him, a keening wail that made his hair stand on end.

          He took a guess at its location. Judging by the song, it was on the northern end of the factory, and probably underground. He leaned forward and blinked into the open space, hitting the wooden floor with barely a sound. A cloud of thick dust rose around him. He waved a hand through it and it stuck to his sleeve.

          The floor cracked and complained beneath his feet as he traversed the factory, heading for a closed bulkhead near the back door. As he neared the end of the building, the oppressive dust suddenly cleared. The floor was clean enough to see the grain of the wood, and the bulkhead looked recently used. A brand new lock held the doors shut.

          Corvo heaved a sigh. Of all the things he had never learned, he regretted lockpicking the most. He drew his pistol and took aim at the lock, moving aside to reduce the chance of a ricochet hitting his legs. He fired once and the lock jangled, heavily dented. He fired again and the it popped open, twisted beyond repair. So much for stealth.

          He worked the lock from the handles and lifted one door, peering into the space below. A few brick steps were visible. Beyond them lay pitch blackness. The dark vision of the Outsider helped a little, but the inky shade was absolute. Corvo propped the door open with a loose brick and descended.

          The stairs led to a massive storeroom, filled with shipping crates and smaller boot boxes. A lantern sat on a nearby table. Corvo blew the dust from its door and fished in his pocket for a book of matches. Once it was lit, he allowed his eyes to relax. The lantern threw a wide circle of light around him. He walked the basement, following the singing of the rune.

          It led him to a dark corner, where an abandoned shrine stood in a state of disrepair. Something about it set Corvo's teeth on edge. It looked like it had gone untouched for years, but the rune had been placed there recently, lacking the characteristic layer of dust. He laid a hand over the cracked bone, fingers bringing the carved mark to life with a flash of light. Its song shifted into a victorious hum.

_Oh, Corvo. You're getting complacent._

          "Wh--" he was interrupted by an explosive pain in the back of his head as something hard slammed into his skull. He fell forward, crashing into the makeshift shrine. The rune skittered to his right, dancing around his blurred vision as a white cloud. The lantern clattered away, light bouncing wildly before going out.

          "Is it him?" his hearing was thick with noise, as if he'd been plunged into water.

          "I think so."

          He was rolled roughly onto his back, and two dark shapes appeared before him.

          "It's him, look at the mask."

          "Good. Tie him up. We'd better get him back before those Bottle Street thugs notice he's gone."

          Corvo fought helplessly to stay awake, but darkness had already enveloped him. It was all he could do to listen, and he thought he heard the clinking of swords and the scuff of dress boots. His mind gave out then, merging all sounds into the singing of the rune and the hush of the Void.


	2. Sink

          _He stood in a grey expanse, where the foggy horizon was dotted with floating lamp posts and impossible islands. There was a stairwell just before him, dark and dripping with seawater. He ascended slowly, already knowing what awaited him._

_At the top of the stairs was a wide landing of stone, hovering in place without the slightest motion. Corvo stepped onto it and the stairs vanished. Before him stood a beautifully adorned shrine, glowing in gold and indigo fabric and covered in glittering silver offerings. He was drawn to it, despite a low panic warning him that he should be awake. He took a few halting steps before regaining control of himself. He waited, defiant, for the Outsider to appear._

_"Corvo," came the lilting voice from just behind him, "you're usually so eager."_

_He turned to find black eyes watching him. The Outsider appeared much the same as ever, as a handsome young man with clean hands and black hair. He was hovering a few inches from the ground, forcing Corvo to look up at him._

_"So many would give their lives for a single world from me," the Outsider made a beckoning gesture, "and yet you call for me only to turn away."_

_"I didn't call for you."_

_"You did. For me. For many. I heard your voice in the space between your world and the Void."_

_Corvo did not reply. He took a slow breath, smelling the acrid salt air of the Void and weighinig his situation. The Outsider tilted his head unsettlingly, waiting for a response. After a long moment, Corvo finally sighed.  
_

_"I didn't mean to," he admitted._

_The ancient face did not change, but Corvo still felt the mocking intimation just under the Outsider's glare. Frustrated, he paced the length of the little island, turning just as he reached the shrine. The Outsider remained in place, watching._

_"You know what happened," Corvo said flatly, "Who attacked me."  
_

_The Outsider inclined his head, "So do you."_

_Corvo glanced over the vastness, nodding. That was the closest thing to a direct answer than the Outsider had given him in months. The deity was evidently in a sharing mood, as he continued in a disinterested tone.  
_

_"Shall I describe the scene for you? Gold masks and worn uniforms carry you away from Bottle Street. Strange music echoes through halls they think I cannot reach."_

_He gave a subtle hum, "A face you had hoped never to see again peers longingly through closed doors."_

_"Please," Corvo rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Stop."  
_

_The Outsider did as he was asked, moving close and landing delicately on the stone island. He seemed suddenly smaller as he reached out a white hand. His freezing fingers touched Corvo's cheek, gently guiding him until they locked eyes. Corvo stared into the shifting darkness of the Outsider's gaze._

_"Be careful, Corvo," the Outsider's voice grew cold, "You may think the worst is over, but I have seen all the things that may be. Tread with caution."_

_Corvo was incapable of putting into words how tired of this warning he had become. He closed his eyes, leaning into the cold palm. The Outsider rarely deigned to touch him. It was a fleeting, terrifying comfort._

_Corvo breathed in the smell of brine and oil. Then, for a moment, he could just make out the scents of soft perfume and flowers in bloom. They were dearly familiar, native to dark hair and fine silks. The skin touching his face felt almost soft._

_Corvo opened his eyes opened blearily, "What--?"_

_The pale hand grew cool as marble once more. The Outsider watched him with a kind of scrutiny Corvo had never seen from the ancient one.  
_

_"That..." Corvo blinked in confusion, "Jessamine?"_

_The faint light in the Outsider's eyes seemed to dim and flare as he shook his head, "A piece of advice, Corvo: the things which echo here are neither living, nor dead. Those who seek to free them inevitably join them."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"You call and call," the Outsider's empty hand fanned briefly before Corvo's chest, "like a frightened animal in a trap. I wonder, are you prepared to receive an answer?"_

_The cold pressure on Corvo's cheek dissipated as the Outsider withdrew his hand and moved wordlessly back. He turned away, his outline flickering into nothingness._

_"Wait--" Corvo began, but the Void turned white as he was drawn rapidly back into the world of the living._

          His eyes snapped open to a chilling, infuriatingly familiar sight. He looked down at himself, seated in a metal chair, with his arms strapped down by tight restraints. He struggled for a moment before determining that he wasn't getting out by sheer force alone. His head pounded, pain driving like an iron spike into the space behind his eyes. Bright light from above forced him to squint.

          Two pairs of feet stepped into view, shining black leather boots on a stone floor. Voices spoke, but Corvo's brain could not process what they were saying through the fog of pain. Unable to move his head, he settled for moving his eyes, though this also brought new waves of agony. There was a low table several yards away, with a metallic shape that might have been his mask. It was difficult to get a good look at it. Someone had pulled his long hair free of its tie, and it was falling across his face, obscuring his vision.

          The two sets of feet retreated and Corvo was left with an unremarkable view of the floor and the table. He lost track of time to the unrelenting stabbing in his skull. His eyes felt like they were about to burst. He spent what seemed like a century simply trying to master the pain. He'd had some marginal success when a door behind him opened loudly and utterly destroyed his concentration.

          He swore to himself. Evidently his hearing had returned to normal in the silence. He hadn't noticed, and the creaking of the door was so amplified as to be almost deafening.

          "Give me some time alone with the prisoner," said the last voice on the earth Corvo wanted to hear.

          "Yes, sir," came a muffled reply, and the door was closed with another series of debilitating squeaks. The clack of bootheels drew nearer, followed by a scraping sound as a chair was dragged across the room. Corvo clenched his teeth, the driving pain causing his vision to go red in spots.

          A pair of ornate boots appeared before him, then relaxed as his captor sat down. Corvo had to fight to raise his head. The effort caused him to breathe hard, stars blooming across his eyes as he battled to focus.

          "Oh, Corvo," sighed Teague Martin, "you're getting complacent."

          A chill shot down Corvo's spine. He allowed his head to droop, fearing for a moment that he might drift back into unconsciousness. His vision was rapidly fading into darkness. Then, mercifully, there was a frigid pressure against the pain, followed by the soft pull of fabric around his forehead.

          "But then," came Martin's voice from behind his ear, "so am I."

          The High Overseer had managed to stand and move around him without Corvo noticing. He was carefully binding a cold compress in place against the lump in the back of Corvo's head. It was a mighty relief.

          "Corvo, I want you to listen to me," Martin was so close that his breath hit Corvo's cheek, "all of Dunwall wants you dead. Slackjaw's men are hopelessly outmatched, and soon you'll have nothing left to protect you. I am the last thing standing between you and immediate death. My Overseers want you swinging from the ramparts."

          "And...?" Corvo managed, pain beginning to fade ever so slightly.

          Martin stepped back into view and took a seat. This time Corvo was able to lift his head with a little less effort. His temples still pounded but the compress was working miracles. Martin settled into the chair with an unreadable expression. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, gesturing with gloved hands.

          "Look at yourself. You're in no condition to free yourself, let alone fight your way out of here. You can hear me out, or I can call my men back in. I hope you'll hear me out."

          "You tried to kill me," Corvo stated flatly.

          "I did."

          "Twice."

          "Once and a half," Martin gave a hint of a smile, "I knew my agents wouldn't give you any real trouble."

          The smile looked good on him, a glimpse of old times on his handsome features. Martin was much the same as ever, all blue eyes and confidence. His hair had receded a bit. He wore the rich crimson coat of his office, but unlike his predecessor he'd elected to leave the top buckle undone, hanging open to reveal the plain frock and standard white collar beneath. A High Overseer for the everyman.

          "I should have let you die," Corvo spat.

          The smile slipped away and Martin clasped his hands together, staring with those pale blue eyes.

          "Why didn't you?" Martin asked softly. The gentle sound of his voice was a blade through Corvo's chest.

          He found himself unable to reply. His mind brought him back, involuntarily, to that moment in the officers' overlook of Kingsparrow Fort. All the things he had wanted to say, only to be silenced by the sight of Martin pressing a pistol to his own head. Corvo would die before he admitted it, but in that moment every bit of rage had abandoned him and left only sheer terror.

          The awful truth of it was that Corvo had never meant to kill him. Despite Martin's attempt on his life, he had always planned to let him go. The steely barrel of that gun, resting so near to Martin's watering eyes... Corvo had raised his crossbow and fired a sleep dart without so much as thinking about it. Martin had slumped, gun dropping to the floor, and Corvo left him snoring under the table.

          Of course, that had all been before Emily died. Corvo had turned it over in his head a thousand times since then, wondering if he'd have drawn any solace from knowing every one of her murderers was dead. Now, with Martin sitting before him, he still didn't have an answer.

          After a long silence, Martin looked down, "I'd have thought I'd be the first one you killed."

          "I didn't kill Pendleton, you did. I watched him bleed to death."

          "Ah."

          "And Havelock--"

          "Deserved to die," Martin glanced back up, "You have to know, it was never my intention that Lady Emily be in any danger. What Havelock did was..."

          "What _he_ did? It was your fault," Corvo said through gritted teeth, and Martin couldn't quite conceal the shock in his expression, "All of it. How dare you say her name?"

          Martin had the unholy audactity to look offended, rearranging his hands with forced casualness, "You can't honestly think I wanted things to happen this way. The city's in shambles, the Empire all but dissolved."

          "You said you'd protect her," Corvo worked to keep his voice from shaking with rage, not looking away from Martin's face, "I understand wanting me dead, but a child?"

          "You were a liability."

          "And what was Emily?" Corvo hissed, "Just another dead Kaldwin?"

          Martin recoiled, face flushing. Corvo leaned forward, breathing through his teeth.

          "Did you lie to her, too? What did you tell her, Teague? The same thing you told me?"

          "I--" the High Overseer stuttered, eyes flashing a vulnerable kind of anger as his voice grew strained, "Corvo, what happened between us then--"

          Corvo made a sound somewhere between a word and a shout, pulling against his restraints with such force that Martin jumped in his chair. He needn't have. Corvo ran out of energy almost immediately, and the return of the pain behind his eyes caused him to lean back, defeated. He drew in a deep breath, heart pounding.

          "What happened between us then," he breathed, "cost me my daughter."

          He felt the word hit Martin and sink in. The silence was so profound that distant sounds of life could be heard from the rest of the building. When he finally looked at Martin again, Corvo found the High Overseer staring at nothing, mouth slightly open.

          So he hadn't known. It was a pitifully small comfort.

          "By the Outsider," Martin said quietly.

          At any other time, Corvo might have laughed at such a sacrilegious oath escaping the lips of the High Overseer. As it was, he was too exhausted, too angry.

          "Whatever offer you were about to make me," he said hoarsely, "won't make up for that. Nothing will."

          Martin had recovered himself by now, and was watching Corvo with wide, determined eyes, "No. No, of course."

          He would never apologize and they both knew it. Martin was a man of decisive action; collateral damage had not once been a concern to him. It was sure to be even less of a concern now that he was the closest thing Gristol had to a monarch. Corvo glared at him with such fury that Martin swallowed and cleared his throat, glancing away. He remained silent for a long while.

          "I..." Martin said slowly, "I'm in an awkward position here. I have the most wanted man in Dunwall trapped in the most fortified building in the city."

          There was that glint in his eyes again, that damnable cockiness that had once brought Corvo to his knees. The old desire was still there, he realized, beneath the anger. A warmth in his chest despite his twisting stomach. He hated himself for it.

          "You know," Martin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "I don't study the forbidden arts. It would be unseemly for a man in my position, you understand. But if I were inclined to do so, and if I wanted to know about the laws of the Void, I would speak to Anton Sokolov."

          "And why would _I_ want to do that?" Corvo asked, voice coming out in a cracked growl.

          The smile creeping over Martin's face took on a momentary edge as he glanced to the floor, "You mean, what could he tell you that you don't already know? Consider it informed advice."

          Corvo stared, waiting. Martin gave him a heavy look, eyes sharp with unspoken emphasis.

          "I am surrounded by horrors I cannot publicly acknowledge," the High Overseer's voice fell to a low whisper, "The dead themselves call out, and the Abbey must remain silent. You have an opportunity to get us both some answers. I wouldn't waste it, if I were you."

          He drew his sword, and Corvo had a moment of panic before Martin slid the blade deftly between Corvo's left arm and the straps which held it. He severed the leather neatly, then sheathed the sword once more.

          "Go ahead," he sighed.

          Corvo lifted his marked hand and fumbled with the straps on his opposite arm. When he was free, he stood shakily and took a wobbling step forward. He was steadier on his feet than he had expected. Martin stood before him, arms open in surrender.

          "It's going to have to look as though you escaped."

          With a deep breath, Corvo drew himself up. In a rapid motion, he threw a heavy punch at Martin's face which the other man made no attempt to dodge. The High Overseer collapsed to the floor, and Corvo followed him, pinning him to the ground with a knee and hitting him again. Martin's lip split, blood pouring over his chin.

          Corvo's head began to pound again as he drove his fist into Martin's face once more. Martin let out a weak groan and Corvo found his vision blurring. He let go and stood up, swaying a little on his feet. He staggered to the table where his mask lay. There'd be no putting it on over the compress, so he clipped it into place on his belt.

          Mercifully, his gear was just outside the open cell door, in the entryway between the hall and the interrogation chamber. He walked slowly, steps growing surer as he went. If Martin wasn't studying the forbidden arts, he wondered vaguely, what was in this compress? He gathered his gear methodically, buckling and clasping each item in turn.

          There was a wheeze from behind him. He turned, finding that Martin had managed to pull himself up onto one elbow. The lower half of his face was covered in blood.

          "Corvo," he said in an almost pleading voice, then drew back slightly as if he expected Corvo to kill him for it. For a long moment, Corvo considered it. He glanced down at the crossbow in his hand. Martin struggled to raise himself.

          With purposeful strides, Corvo doubled back into the cell and took aim at Martin's chest. The High Overseer's eyes went wide in fear as Corvo pulled the trigger. The dart buried itself just above Martin's heart. He lolled to one side and fell onto his shoulder, eyes rolling back. A shaky breath rattled from his bloody lips, followed by a soft snore.

          Corvo hoped sincerely this wouldn't become a habit for the two of them. He entertained the idea of strapping Martin into the chair, but decided the satisfaction was not worth the effort. Putting up his crossbow, he moved to the door without bothering to draw his sword. He would sneak out, and if he could help it, no one would notice.

          It wasn't until he was crawling along the outhanging second-floor ledge toward Holger Square that he remembered why he'd left the distillery at all. He cursed himself silently. He had absolutely nothing to show for his trouble today, save for a nasty headache. No information on the Overseers' movements, no rune, and no clue what he would say to Slackjaw by way of explanation.

          The night air was cool on his face, and though he couldn't see the moon through the surrounding buildings, he took a guess it was getting late. He'd spent longer in the Void than he'd realized. Distant shouting rang out from far behind him. They had found Martin, then. Corvo steadied his breathing and pressed on. This would be his second long night in a row.

 

* * *

 

          By the time he arrived at the distillery, Corvo could barely stand. The thundering in his head had locked the muscles in his neck and back, made worse by his constant ducking and hiding as he avoided the incensed Overseers. The effects of the compress had long since worn off, and he'd thrown it into a dumpster. He stumbled through the main entrance to the distillery, nearly walking into two men on patrol.

          "Ey!" one of them shouted in surprise, loud voice like a brick to Corvo's beleaguered head, "Where've you been?"

          "Yeah, Slackjaw's been tearin' up the walls-- shit, what happened to you?"

          Corvo pushed weakly through them and they parted to let him by, only to follow him as he made his way to the central building. He was aware of his legs beginning to sway, and the Bottle Street Boys whispering behind him. He was sure the back of his head was a blood-matted mess.

          There were few men in the distillery, most of them out on their regular rounds, or maybe searching for him. One of them stepped quickly out of his way as he headed for Slackjaw's office. The long hallway leading to the main storage was illuminated by bright lights, forcing him to hold up a hand over his eyes. As he approached the office, he heard laughter and the clinking of glass.

          He was already half-blind and furious by the time he reached the threshold, and his mood was not improved when he threw open the door to see Slackjaw leaning back in his chair, a chipped glass and a bottle of whiskey on the desk before him. The boss had his feet up on the desk and one hand resting on his own face. Slackjaw had only a second to register Corvo's presence before Corvo drew his sword dramatically.

         Slackjaw jerked forward, nearly falling out of his chair. The desk rattled, causing the whiskey bottle to tip. Slackjaw stood abruptly, catching the precarious bottle with one hand. He bared his other palm in a calming gesture.

          "Hey, now--" Slackjaw began, but Corvo raised his sword threateningly and the crime boss closed his mouth.

          Shuffling into the room, Corvo pulled the door shut. Its bars offered little privacy, and the other side of the office was plainly visible through the stairs, but Corvo hoped it would buy him some time if he found himself killing Slackjaw in the next few minutes.

          "Did you know?" Corvo demanded.

          Slackjaw was nonplussed.

          "Did you know," repeated Corvo, voice coming out in a dangerous hiss, "the factory was a trap. How much did Martin pay you to hand me over?"

          Slackjaw's expression changed from confusion to stark anger, "I don't much like what you're accusin' me of."

          "Then why the celebration?"

          "Blowin' off steam," Slackjaw's tone was defensive, but his dark eyes held a fiery threat, "I spent my whole day worryin' after you. If I didn't unwind, my boys'd start to think I was goin' soft."

          Corvo didn't bother replying, sure that his face would convey his disbelief. After a short pause, Slackjaw blew a frustrated huff out his nose and began fishing in his pocket for a cigarette, which he lit with a nearby candle.

          "Six teams of four," he said as he smoked, taking a deep lungful and blowing smoke in Corvo's direction, "that's how many men I had out lookin' for you after dark. They're still out there. Already had one team get into a nasty little skirmish with some Overseers. So you could say old Slackjaw's a bit jumpy."

          "Odd way of showing it," Corvo's gaze darted pointedly to the bottle of whiskey.

          "Maybe," Slackjaw admitted, furrowing his eyebrows, "maybe I needed something else to think about, 'stead of picturing what might've happened to you."

          "I don't buy it."

          A flicker of emotion passed over Slackjaw's face, his jaw twitching in what might have been honest hurt. It vanished quickly, replaced by a stormy look.

          "You want out?" Slackjaw waved a hand, "Get out. I got no time to worry about you anyway."

          Corvo was surprised to find that he still had energy left to be disappointed. He lowered his blade in a gesture of good faith, but Slackjaw simply watched him. In a late realization, Corvo discovered that he had not planned out what he would do if Slackjaw turned him away. He was injured, near collapse, and the adrenaline of his anger was rapidly giving way as the last few hours caught up with him. He needed to rest, and soon.

          Pride alone kept him upright as Slackjaw calmly poured a glass of whiskey and walked it over to him.

          "Corvo," Slackjaw said tersely when he was close enough to hand Corvo the glass, "if I wanted you out of my way, I'd have poisoned you months ago. I ain't the kind of man who sells out friends, 'less they give me a good reason. You oughta know that by now."

          As the words left Slackjaw's lips, Corvo felt a wave of shame pass through him. He read the lines of Slackjaw's face, accepting the glass of whiskey. They had never before had a candid conversation about the terms of their arrangement. It was evident enough from the flinty resolve in his eyes that Slackjaw meant every word.

          By way of apology, Corvo took a long sip of whiskey. It barely burned going down-- Slackjaw had broken out the special reserve.

          Corvo gave a weak laugh, gesturing with the glass, "You must have thought I was dead."

          Slackjaw gave him a look he couldn't quite place, "I did."

          The dim lighting played with Corvo's vision, and suddenly Slackjaw's face seemed much closer than it had been. Corvo recognized belatedly the sensation of falling forward, and Slackjaw caught him with a grunt of surprise. Corvo's face collided with Slackjaw's chest, stubble scraping down the linen of a white shirt. There was a ringing thud as the whiskey glass hit the floor and rolled.

          "By the shitting Void," Slackjaw's emphatic cursing meant he'd noticed the state of Corvo's head. It was all Corvo could do to grip weakly at the strong arms holding him up. Slackjaw snaked his hands around Corvo's back and dragged him to the cot in the corner of the room. He deposited him sideways on the little bed, rolling him to get a better look at his head.

          Lying down was such a relief that Corvo was unfazed when Slackjaw growled, "You stubborn Serk bastard."

          Corvo held up a hand in a rude gesture, and Slackjaw obliged him with a breath of low laughter. Slackjaw knelt before him, retrieving his bottle of whiskey from the desk and pouring some of the liquid over his fingers. He leaned over Corvo and began to press gently at the edges of the wound. Corvo hissed in pain as the alcohol made contact with open flesh. It was becoming rapidly apparent that he could not have made it six feet from the distillery door had he chosen to leave.

          Slackjaw was murmuring to himself as he surveyed the damage, finally saying aloud, "We're gonna need you patched up."

          Corvo made a noise in agreement.

          "Beyond me, though. And the guy we used to pay got killed a few months back."

          Slackjaw paused with a dark expression, apparently weighing his options. He looked from Corvo's bloodied scalp to his eyes, then down at the floor.

          "Ah, fuck," he muttered as he stood up, "Wait here."

          As if Corvo had a choice.


	3. Drip, Drip

          Voices wavered in and out on the edge of Corvo's mind.

          "You think I don't know who he is? I'd rather eat plague rats than help him."

          "You ever wanna see your little whaler friends again, you'll do as you're told."

          "Kill me, then."

          "Heroics ain't gonna get you very far, girl," Slackjaw's gravelly voice was nearby, maybe even standing over. Corvo found he could not open his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. His whole body begged to go back to sleep.

          "And threats aren't working for you," came a woman's voice, unfamiliar and full of restrained anger, "I won't do it."

          There was a specific laugh Slackjaw used when he intended to hurt someone, a false, cawing laughter that both mocked and intimidated. He was using it now, moving away from Corvo and toward the center of the room. If Corvo knew Slackjaw as well as he thought he did, the man had just drawn his meat cleaver and was now observing it closely in the light.

          "You see this?" Slackjaw said, and Corvo would've rolled his eyes had they been open, "This little darling has taken so many lives I've lost count. Those chips in the blade, that's where she left pieces of metal in some poor bastard's bones. So when you say 'no' to me, I want you to think nice and hard on that."

          He had presumably thrust the flat of the blade under her chin.

          "Terrifying, really," came a dull, sarcastic reply, "You're not fooling me, though. You need my help, so you're not about to kill me. You can't torture me, or I won't be able to work. You could try starving me out, but he'll be dead long before then."

          Dead? That sounded like a bluff, but then again Corvo had been trying for several minutes to open his eyes without so much as a twitch. That did not bode well. He switched his efforts to moving his hands, or his feet, with equal success. His stomach did a terrified flip. The last time he'd experienced this kind of inertia was after half a bottle of Tyvian poison. What if Martin had--?

          He stowed the thought quickly, reasoning that Martin wouldn't have set him free with a bag of poison tied to his head. It would have looked bad all around had Corvo died within view of the Overseers. Martin would have seemed incompetent for failing to subdue one brain-addled and dying man. No, it was more likely Corvo's own body was betraying him, as disheartening as the thought was. He heard Slackjaw's voice grow louder and rougher.

          "-- can't see where you have a choice," Slackjaw was saying.

          "Huh," the woman sounded calm enough, but there was a barely perceptible waver to her voice, "that's an interesting weakness you've got, Slackjaw. I wonder what Daud would make of it."

          Slackjaw let out a wordless roar, followed by fast footfalls and a muted slam. There was a choked gasp of shock from the woman as Slackjaw threw her against a wall.

          "You little bitch," the crime boss snarled in a tone reserved for those he was about to dismember, "You think you got grounds to threaten me? Let me put it real simple for you. Either you save this man's life, or I hold you down, pull your eyes out and feed them to you."

          There was a dragging silence, in which Corvo guessed Slackjaw's words had achieved their desired effect. Another, softer thud sounded as Slackjaw allowed the woman to slump to the floor.

          "Fine," she said, her voice high and breathy with fear. She cleared her throat, "Fine, but I'll need tools. Supplies."

          Whatever else Slackjaw had to say, it failed to pierce through the haze of Corvo's mind returning to sleep. Something was pulling him under, like the reaching monsters sailors told stories about. Sleep crashed over him with the smell of the sea.

 

_He stood on the observatory ledge at the top of Kingsparrow Lighthouse. He was alone; there was no trace of Havelock or Emily or any living soul. The fog swirled, a telltale mark of the Void. He wondered what would happen if he stepped off the edge. Would he fall forever, plunging eternally into an endless light? Or would he find the sea waited below after all?_

_"I wouldn't try it."_

_Corvo turned. The Outsider waited, standing just beyond the edge of the metal walkway. The deity watched him with folded arms._

_"Why not?" Corvo asked, only half joking._

_The Outsider flexed his hands, digging his fingers into his arms. It seemed, for a dissonant moment, that he was at a loss for words. The cold glint of his eyes returned as he took a step forward, his heel hitting the steel grate without a sound. He paused there, expression pensive._

_"Why did you bring me here?" Corvo continued, if only to fill the silence, "Why this place?"_

_"What your senses tell you in this place reflects what you expect to see. You took yourself where you wanted to go," the Outsider sounded displeased, as if Corvo had said something to offend him._

_Corvo accepted the answer with a slow nod, peering down into the haze,"What happens if I jump?"_

_"That, I cannot tell you. To put it simply, it would be up to you."_

_Corvo glanced back over his shoulder, "Would I die?"_

_"It's possible. Many things are possible."_

_The Outsider having returned to his customary vagueness, Corvo turned back to the swirling Void. He slid his foot from the edge of the platform. No gravity pulled at his toes. He wondered idly whether the lighthouse behind him was real, or a mere illusion. There had been wind at the top of Kingsparrow Light, so loud that Corvo could barely hear. The Void either did not know or did not care that the details were wrong._

_"Martin gave you some strange advice, did he not?" the Outsider asked so casually that Corvo was more than a little disturbed. The inhuman cadence of the deity's voice had descended into an inflection decidedly more mortal. Corvo hesitated before responding._

_"He told me to find Sokolov."_

_"Will you?"_

_"Maybe. What did he mean about the laws of the Void?"_

_The Outsider smiled, a closed-lipped smirk that sent Corvo's blood running cold. Any trace of humanity vanished from the pale face in the wake of that horrible smile. For the first time in any of his visits to the Void, Corvo wanted nothing more than to wake up._

_"Fair winds, Corvo," the Outsider said, and raised his hand to send Corvo flying off the ledge. The world went weightless as the Void stretched out impossibly wide around him. The last thing he saw before waking was those black, animal eyes watching him fall._

 

          Corvo gasped as he awoke, thrust harshly back into consciousness. His eyes opened of their own accord, offering him a humble view of the rough wooden barrels beneath the distillery stairs. It was a welcome sight. Daylight filtered in from above, accompanied by the flickering glow of a lamp. He smelled salt and sterile alcohol, and could hear rustling just behind him.

          "Don't move," said a woman's voice, "Stay still."

          There was a clipping noise, like the snap of scissors. It was uncomfortably close to Corvo's head. He could feel nothing of the weighty pain from the day before, although his muscles were still clenched into knots. He focused on trying to breathe normally, heart slowing its feverish pace.

          "So," said the woman, "the great Corvo Attano. I'm not impressed."

          He had no reply for that.

          "I suppose we've been trying too hard all this time. We never thought of just bashing your head in. Could've saved ourselves a world of trouble."

          "Who are you?" he asked through a dry throat.

          "Name's Benton. I work for Daud. Or, I did. Who knows if he'll take me back after all this."

          Her voice had a weary strain to it. There were more clipping noises, and Corvo began to feel a creeping sensation of pressure on the back of his head. She pressed something soft against his scalp and pulled gently at his shoulder.

          "Up," she said firmly, and he pushed himself onto one arm, "good timing, waking up when you did. Makes it easier to bind your skull in place."

           _"What?"_

          "Relax, I'm kidding. Mostly. The swelling was pretty rough but I think you'll be alright. Could have been much worse. Looks like somebody used some of _our_ methods to keep the damage to a minimum."

          She was wrapping a thin cloth around his head as she spoke. A buried part of Corvo wished that she were someone else. His vision wobbled a bit, dizziness rushing over him as careful hands secured the binding just behind his ear. The bandage was tight, but not constricting. Gingerly, he leaned toward her and rolled onto his back, balancing on his elbows and finally able to see her face.

          Benton was nice enough looking, her features accentuated by lines where she used to smile. Her skin was olive brown, like his. Her forehead was creased with worry, making her look older than her voice suggested she was. Her wide brown eyes were blinking at him in skeptical observation.

          "Are you a doctor?" He asked, genuinely curious. She looked young to have graduated the Academy, but in recent times, the Academy needed all the help they could get. She gave a bitter laugh, however, and shook her head. She leaned back on her heels, kneeling by the bed.

          "No, I'm no doctor. I used to work for one. Learned enough of the trade to get by, made myself useful to whoever paid until Daud offered to take me in."

          Corvo felt himself frowning, "And you trust him?"

          "He's never given me a reason not to," her expression grew cold, "and you're one to talk. You've murdered enough of us in your time."

          She had him there. He glanced away, muttering, "Daud and the rest of your people killed the Empress."

          "So?" she asked with such venom that he turned to her in utter shock, "So he killed the Empress. Do you really think things would be any better on the streets if she was still alive? The plague's coming for everyone."

          "She wanted to cure the plague," Corvo said evenly, "If she had seen what Burrows was doing--"

          "But she wouldn't have seen it. She didn't back then, and if Daud hadn't killed her, no one ever would have."

          Corvo awarded Benton a scathing glare, but she merely shook her head in exasperation, "You court people, you never saw the plague like the rest of us did. It was always distant to you. You didn't lose anyone to it."

          Emily's voice rang through his head, sharp and sudden. _Mommy!_ she had cried while Daud put a sword through Jessamine. _Corvo, please!_ she had screamed, just before he'd let her fall.

          "Yes, I did," he hissed.

          Benton's shoulders fell slightly, "Maybe you did. Either way it's done now."

          She stood and began packing a series of small instruments into a bag. Corvo felt he ought to thank her, but her comment about the Empress stung so fiercely that he couldn't bring himself to do so. Instead he watched her steady hands as they moved, until the table was cleared and she snapped the bag shut. She stole a glance at a nearby chair, where her whaler's mask lay discarded. She lifted it reverently, turning toward the door.

          "Who did you lose?" Corvo asked in spite of himself, and her retreating frame paused. She was silhouetted in the lamplight, and the shadows made her seem frail.

          "A good man," she said, then added in a much lower voice, "I didn't even get to bury him."

          She moved out in the hall before Corvo could reply, and she closed the iron door on him with a soft thud. She disappeared down the long hallway, eventually greeted by rough voices. Corvo hoped the gang would let her go without much trouble. He was in no condition to ensure her safety himself. He leaned gently back, grateful to learn that with some adjustment he could lie comfortably without the recently stitched part of his head hitting the pillow. He stared up at the stairs, unwilling to sleep.

          He allowed his mind to trail longingly over memories of Jessamine. Those furtive smiles at court, the mischievous tilt of her lips when she had a daring idea. Jessamine with her hair down around her shoulders, half-undressed and so passionately angry about some petty argument amongst the nobles that she forgot to take off her shoes. Quiet nights seated by a fire with a bottle of whiskey they passed back and forth. Restless nights when he would sneak into her bedchambers to curl into the massive bed beside her, or with baby Emily between them.

          He had once overheard a conversation between two noble women, in which one of them described he and the Empress as "all but married." It was accurate enough, and ought to have made him happy, but he had been haunted by the phrase ever since. They had certainly been _all_ , a matched pair if ever there was one. A family, as Corvo had always secretly thought of them. But the lack of a title and centuries of precedence had stood between them.

          Would it have been different if they could have married? It had to have been. Not that it mattered now. Corvo closed his eyes, recalling the faint scent of Jessamine's perfume, tainted by the Void. _An echo,_ the Outsider had told him, _neither living, nor dead_. Corvo turned the warning over in his head until a realization darted across his mind, bright as a falling star. What was it Martin had said?

          His reverie was interrupted by Slackjaw opening the office door and peering in.

          "You back from the Void?" Slackjaw joked, with no way of knowing how right he was. Corvo sat up with some effort, one hand bracing against the edge of the cot.

          "I need a favor," he rasped.

          "You'll owe it to me."

          Corvo nodded.

          "Well," Slackjaw slid into the room, crossing to the desk and pulling up a chair. He sat, legs open, and leaned forward, "Tell me what you need."

          "I need to find Anton Sokolov."

 

* * *

 

          A few days later, once Corvo was well enough to stand, he and Slackjaw began poring over every map of the city they could find. Slackjaw sent his best scouts to sniff out any trace of Sokolov, a hefty task considering they had exactly zero leads on his location.

          After the failed coup, Martin had implicated Sokolov in Burrows' plot against the Empress. Corvo had never been able to ascertain why, exactly, but he could guess it had something to do with how much Sokolov knew of Martin's own corruption. The Royal Physician had been publicly disgraced, stripped of his position at the Academy, and all but banished.

          "You knew him, didn't you?" Slackjaw asked as Corvo settled into a chair, "Where would he go?"

          Corvo sighed, "If I knew, I'd have gone there already."

          "Sure," Slackjaw deadpanned, "you and your broken head."

          They had been staring at the same two maps of the Estate District for the better part of an hour. It was dusk. Slackjaw gave the desk one final look of distrust before he deftly gathered the maps in one hand and tossed them onto the bed.

          "Forget all this," he said, taking a seat opposite Corvo, "what do we know about him?"

          Corvo was in no mood to play along. They'd had this conversation twice already, and each time Slackjaw seemed freshly optimistic that Corvo would remember some new detail about the scientist. So far, nothing had come of it.

          "He stopped makin' elixir," Slackjaw was undaunted by Corvo's listlessness, "Slackjaw's the only name in that market now. So he ain't working. And Martin hasn't bought his loyalty yet, or we'd have found elixir on the Overseers by now."

          Corvo rubbed his eyes, "None of that helps."

          "Maybe. What would he do if he couldn't work? If he's layin' low?"

          "Leave the country."

          "That's doubtful," Slackjaw leaned over the desk and retrieved his lighter, taking a half-finished cigarette from the dusty ashtray and lighting it in one graceful motion, "that eerie bastard won't wander far from this place, not with things on the street bein' what they are."

          "What do you mean?" Corvo watched as the light played on Slackjaw's features.

          Slackjaw gave a slight shrug, "There's things in the shadows. Things in the river. People say the Void is comin' up from the water."

          Corvo raised an eyebrow, "You believe that?"

          "Don't know what I believe," Slackjaw waved one hand in a way that struck Corvo as somewhat defensive, "Know what I see, though, and I've seen some strange shit the last few months."

          "Strange how?"

          "How do you think?" Slackjaw took a long drag from his cigarette as if to steel his nerves, "Nobody walks the street without feelin' watched, and I've seen... faces. In the water."

          Corvo felt the beginnings of a chill settling over him, "Plague victims."

          "No," the gang leader lowered his voice, leaning conspiratorially in Corvo's direction, "not bodies. Just faces. The boys've seen 'em too."

          "I knew a sailor who used to talk like that."

          "Well, he was honest."

          The chill was undeniable now, as Corvo shivered, and for a brief moment there was a ghostly sensation of the Outsider's freezing hand pressed into his cheek. Slackjaw shifted his weight abruptly, eyes narrowing.

          "Do you feel that?" Slackjaw muttered, glancing around, "the cold?"

          "I feel it."

          Slackjaw stood, agitated, and paced around the desk, "This fuckin' town."

          He said no more, but it was evident that he was truly unnerved. He busied himself looking over notes from his men, before glancing up once more. His eyes searched Corvo's face.

          "What does any of it have to do with Sokolov?" Corvo asked, as much to distract Slackjaw as anything else.

          "He's gotta be thrilled," Slackjaw said, and the chill began to ebb away, "He loves that black arts shit, worships the Outsider."

          "How do you know that?"

          "Everyone knows it. Rumor back in the day was that Sokolov gave Campbell all his illegal relics, an' Campbell kept quiet about it. So if the Void really is risin' up from the sea, and we're all doomed to serve the Outsider, you can bet Sokolov is pissing himself with joy."

          A rush of noise in Corvo's ear was followed by a wry, _Quite the turn of phrase. I like 'doomed to serve,' don't you?_

          "He's worshipping," Corvo realized, rewarded with a distant hum of agreement from the ancient deity, "He's not working because he's trying to summon the Outsider."

          "Crazy son of a bitch. Where would he go?"

          "Where the river is highest," Corvo said, and for a disconnected moment his voice felt different, his cadence borrowed and cold, "he will go to the Flooded District, where the tide unearths the bones of whales."

          Slackjaw, apparently having missed the change in Corvo's voice, nodded and went digging through his desk for a particular folded map. He opened it and spread it out, and Corvo stood to get a better look. He was steadier on his feet than before, but still had to lean a hand on the desk for support. If Slackjaw noticed, he didn't mention it.

          The map showed the flooded Financial District and Slaughterhouse Row, with the river separating them. Someone had drawn several layers of outlines marking where the water had taken the streets. Corvo studied it for a moment before an obvious conclusion clicked into place. He took a swift breath to calm himself, failed, and banged his fist on the desk.

          Slackjaw regarded him with an expectant look.

          "Daud," Corvo ground his teeth, "he's working for Daud."

          Slackjaw leaned slowly back, mouth falling open, "Damn me to the Void. Course he is. That's why nobody's seen him. Daud's been payin' him with whalebone and Sokolov's been makin' his poisons."

          Furious with himself, Corvo pushed off from the desk and stumbled over the the bed, fishing his gear out from underneath the low cot and shrugging into his coat. He should have seen this coming, he berated himself. Of course Sokolov would seek out a man marked by the Outsider. Daud would have had no trouble bribing the scientist with runes and promises of the Void. Corvo straightened and snatched his folded sword from beneath the pillow. His vision blurred at the edges.

          Slackjaw was watching him calmly from the desk, grinding his cigarette out and blowing one last lungful of smoke in Corvo's direction.

          "What exactly do you think you're gonna do?" asked the crime boss.

          "I'm going to find him," Corvo said bluntly, "and I'm going to make his life very complicated."

          Slackjaw awarded him an appraising look which slowly melted into a mix of approval and skepticism, "Just don't get yourself killed."

          Corvo glared at him with such force that Slackjaw broke into one of his dangerous smiles.

          "Shit, Corvo. Warn a man before you look at him like that."

          Corvo turned on his heel and left Slackjaw to stand there musing, while the Outsider took up a humming residence somewhere in the distant reaches of his mind. He pulled his mask on, avoiding the bandages around his head, hazy vision be damned. It was well past time he and Sokolov had a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. This is the last of the 'talking' chapters, soon we'll get back to all those delicious, awful things the tags are warning you about. It's about to get violent in here.


	4. Cradle of Bone

          At the outskirts of the Flooded District, where the great smokestacks of the old whale oil factory were first visible over the rooftops, Corvo darted into an abandoned building to rest. His head was aching again, but that was the least of his problems. There were two immediate snags in his plan, as he peered around the rotting doorway and out across the watery street. First, he had no idea where in the district Sokolov would be. Second, the streets were crawling with Daud's people.

          The Knife of Dunwall had been busy recruiting since the fall of the city, and the meager few dozen assassins had grown into a force of nearly a hundred. Maybe more. There were at least twenty on guard duty along this street. Corvo clicked the gears on the side of his mask, magnifying his view of two whalers as they chatted on a balcony a block down. They seemed nervous.

          So Daud had heightened security around the old Chamber of Commerce. Why? He could not possibly be expecting Corvo; their last meeting had ended with Daud essentially calling him a coward. The Overseers, then? Would Martin really send more troops to die in the Flooded District? It had been one of Campbell's last acts alive to send over fifty Overseers to their deaths at Daud's hands, and as such Martin had limited all combat with the assassins to Abbey-controlled districts. What else could possibly threaten Daud?

          He didn't intend to find out. Ducking low, he drew his crossbow and edged through a waterlogged apartment. He stepped carefully over broken glass and dodged furniture, making his way to a stairway leading to the upper floors. On the third floor, he discovered a hole in the outer wall facing an alley. His dark vision revealed no hostile life but a few hagfish swimming below, so he blinked to an opposite roof and turned to face the district.

          Clouds were rolling in off the distant sea. They hung low behind the old refinery, mimicking the smog which had once spewed from the giant chimneys. Closer to Corvo, the immediate area surrounding the former market and Chamber of Commerce was well-covered by assassins. They were pacing the roofs and lining the corridors of the old tenements. None of them had noticed him.

          He considered his options. The refinery was weeper territory, and given Sokolov's previously plush lifestyle it was unlikely he'd moved anywhere near there. It was equally unlikely he'd have taken up residence in the Chamber of Commerce, as he preferred to carry out his experiments undisturbed. He could not have gone far, however.

          Corvo had a distant memory of a few well-preserved and cozy buildings, some two blocks south of his current position. There were several comfortable residences there, likely to appeal to the inventor. It wasn't much of a lead, but it was a start.

          He blinked across the rooftops until most of Daud's assassins were out of sight. A cold wind was chasing the clouds inland, and Corvo eagerly climbed into the open window of an old office. He slowed his pace, finding respite in the form of a plain wooden chair. His head felt heavy. He leaned back, his breathing the loudest sound in the building. The mark on his hand flared.

_Are you growing tired, Corvo?_

          He was, but Corvo was not about to admit it. He stared out the crumbling windows at another wall of brick and glass across the street.

_Or does the flame of revenge still burn for you?_

          "No," Corvo lied to himself in a whisper, "but I have to know."

_What is there to know?_

          What wasn't there to know? He knew his own body count, and the number of those he'd lost. He knew why they were gone. What he didn't know was what came next, or why he still bothered fighting in this shell of a city.

_Searching for meaning? I can save you some time. There is none._

          "What does Martin know that I don't?" Corvo asked, and the resulting silence told him he had asked the right question.

          He pushed off from his knees and stood, crossing the office and pulling an aged desk away from a door. As he stepped into the main hall of the building, there was a rustle of footsteps from just below him. He ducked rapidly back into the office, snapping his sword open and barely leaning around the doorframe.

          A man in whaler's garb trudged up the stairs, evidently making his rounds. He was alone. Corvo tiptoed around the old desk, crouching behind it and waiting patiently. The assassin moved into the room with caution, noticing the displaced desk and turning to look around.

          In one motion, Corvo was up and sliding over the desk, landing on his feet behind the assassin. He threw an arm around the man's throat. The assassin struggled briefly, until Corvo's sword flashed beside his face.

          "Where is Sokolov?" Corvo asked in a hushed voice.

          Rather than answer him, the man planted his feet and drove his elbow back, hard, into Corvo's ribs. Corvo's hold broke as the assassin whirled around, one hand raised. Before he could right himself, Corvo was lifted off his feet, helplessly flailing his sword as the acrid smell of the Void choked out breathable air.

          The spell didn't last long, however. Corvo dropped to the floor, landing on his knees and bracing himself with one hand. The assassin took a step back, drawing a knife, but Corvo was much faster. He closed the distance between them in two quick steps and plunged his sword into the man's shoulder, pinning him to a support beam in the center of the room.

          The assassin tried to scream in pain, but Corvo muffled him with a hand to his throat. When the screams had died down to wimpers, Corvo eased up, instead leaning into his sword to ensure the man wouldn't try to free himself.

          "Sokolov," Corvo demanded once more.

          The man mumbled something. Corvo leaned closer, but could only make out _Sorry._ He was confused for a long moment, before a vague memory came back to him. He reached out and pulled off the whaler's mask.

          To Corvo's disappointment, the assassin was young, maybe twenty at the oldest, and his eyes were already unfocused with wide pupils. There was a tiny trail of foam beginning to run from the corner of his mouth.

          Corvo allowed himself a frustrated sigh as the young man went into convulsions, the poison he'd just taken wracking his body from the inside out. The boy's eyes grew rapidly bloodshot, and the foam he choked on turned red. Within a minute, he'd gone limp, still held in place by the sword through his shoulder. Corvo jerked the blade free and the body fell to the floor with a hushed thud.

          Corvo knelt beside the corpse, wiping his sword clean on the whaler's uniform. Apparently, taking one of them alive was out of the question. He needed only one guess as to who had concocted such effective toxin. He paused, blade laid flat against the dead man's leg. _Poison_ , said a voice in a memory, _Tyvian stuff._

          "Damn," he closed his eyes, smiling wryly despite himself. He drew himself up and made his way back out into the hall, leaving the body for the rats. He had to wonder how long Sokolov had been making poisons for the underbelly of Dunwall. Hemlock was cheap in the city, but the bottled stuff was ineffective if you needed something strong. It was possible Sokolov had been capitalizing on this for some time. No wonder Daud wanted him.

          Corvo spent the next hour picking his way through the ancient tenements and destroyed workplaces of Rudshore Financial. He made slow progress, occasionally having to wait for an assassin to pass, and arrived at the former luxury buildings as the sun finally set. He blinked to a second-story window and leapt in.

          The moment he set foot inside, shrieking songs ripped through his head in a dissonant wave of sound. The effect was so sudden that he raised a hand to his forehead, as if to block the noise. Whatever he was hearing, it was no ordinary charm or rune. The mark on his hand burned hot, but no voice called to him. He pressed on.

          The living areas looked clean and recently inhabited. Holes in the walls had been shored up with brick and mortar. There were plenty of new lamps and candles, and the rugs underfoot were relatively clean. Corvo peered up and down the stairs, but saw only darkness above, perforated by dim light. He crept down toward the lower floors, finding the main entryway almost totally destroyed. A path had been made through the rubble, leading to a door tucked away beneath the stairs. He followed the path, and the singing of the bones grew so loud that the air around him felt as though it were vibrating.

          He found the door locked, but a little downward pressure and a swift push on the knob knocked the mechanism out of place. Inside lay a long flight of stairs, leading to an open basement which was, remarkably, not flooded. The open door offered only some light. He made painstaking progress down the stairs, leading with his sword and feeling the song in his head as a constant pull. He could almost have closed his eyes and walked right to the source. There were a few tables in the room, littered with all sorts of scientific equipment along with... stranger things. Animal bones were scattered across fine linens, and magnifying glasses with oddly-colored lenses held samples of what smelled like rotting flesh. The air stank heavily of preservative and mold.

          Corvo was more than halfway across the room, and the telltale smoke and glow of a rune or a charm was nowhere to be seen. He took a few more uncertain steps into the darkness, finding a candelabra and a book of matches on a table. He lit each candle in turn, then continued his journey. From the looks of the room, Sokolov, or someone similarly inclined, had been working here. Corvo lifted the candelabra toward the far end of the basement, shedding light on the back wall.

          The shriek of the song became suddenly deafening, the vibration penetrating his skin and causing his hand to shake. What he saw, resting against the back wall, rooted him to the spot in horror.

          A massive jaw, swordlike and lined with hundreds of teeth, stood open at the end of the room. The enormous skull was affixed to the floor and ceiling, gaping horribly in an eternal scream. On the floor beneath the skull, and built up around either side, was an altar made entirely of bone, huge ribs draped in rich fabrics. The skull was covered in detailed carvings, blackened by fire. Among them was the mark of the Outsider. The faint glow around the bones emanated black smoke, the smell of the Void accompanied by a sick waft of burning flesh. The entire thing was not singing, but _screaming_. The whale's destroyed skeleton was crying out in pain, in a way that was undeniably, wrenchingly _alive_.

          Corvo was nearly overcome by a wave of nausea, but steeled himself and lifted his hand. The mark glowed for a moment, hot as a furnace, before it went utterly dark. A jolt of real fear hit him then, and he found himself wishing actively for the Outsider's presence. Even that would be a comfort in the face of this monstrosity. But no soft voice could be heard, nor even the hum of his watching eyes.

          "What is this?" Corvo murmured, and did not receive an answer.

          The candles flickered in a rush of impossible wind. Something resting on the horrific altar caught the light, and Corvo stepped closer despite himself. His pulse pounded in his head.

          Nestled back on the shrine, partially obscured by gathered fabric, was a sealed jar filled with liquid. Inside, distorted by the glass, floated a perfect human heart.

 

          Whatever Sokolov had gotten himself into, it was bad news. Corvo retreated up the stairs, leaving the basement as he'd found it and pulling the door shut. He hurried to the upper floors and searched for any signs of recent activity. As far as he could discern, this place was merely a lab, and the scientist was living elsewhere. At least, none of the rooms had beds, or even sofas. Tables were covered in papers, books and artifacts.

          The third floor lab held an ornate, if worn, desk. Corvo rifled through it, finding mostly personal notes and trinkets. Sokolov had indeed been working for Daud. Notes between the two of them suggested a weekly exchange of elixir and poison for... something. It was unclear what Sokolov was receiving out of the arrangement.

          A familiar name on a scrap of paper caused Corvo to examine it more closely. As he did so, he frowned.

_Anton,_

_I hope this note finds you safe and alive. I heard that the "High Overseer" was looking for you. If I know you, he hasn't got a chance of finding you. I want you to know I thought about your offer, but the path you've chosen is not for me. I can't follow you in this pursuit. I wish you luck, may you find what you're searching for. I myself will be laying low from now on. It is possible we may never meet again, but if we ever do, know that I am saving a bottle of that noxious paint you call brandy._

_Best of luck,_

_Piero_

          The name sent a pang of memory through Corvo. He set the note down where he'd found it, staring absently at the flames on the candelabra as they burned low. Sokolov had been serious about his worship of the Outsider, then. Corvo glanced down at the mark on his hand, pondering how it had gone dark before the great skull. He could still hear the screaming from the basement, though it was muffled at this distance.

          "Are you there?" he asked the dark office. He stood in the silence for a long moment, then shook his head. Of course the Outsider would not answer. He had never come when called.

          Resuming his search of the room, he dug for any hint of where Sokolov might be living. He finally found, at the bottom of an overstuffed chest of drawers, a receipt for services rendered by a delivery service. It cost a decent sum to have lab equipment transported downriver into a closed district. There were two addresses listed on the receipt, one of them where Corvo stood now, the other some distance away on Brockden Street. Corvo pocketed the receipt and blinked to the closest window.

          The flooded streets loomed dark below, as the night clouds began to rain. The Outsider's vision was a necessity, as Corvo moved from building to building, avoiding the assassins on patrol. The darkness was a blessing, by now so impenetrable that even the whalers' masks would offer little clarity. He made good time across the district, stopping occasionally to catch his breath or allow his head to stop hurting. The ache was lesser now, though accompanied by a new stinging where the line of stitches held his skin.

          Brockden Street was more of a dead-end alley than a street. Corvo stood above it, sure he was in the right place when he smelled cooked meat in the air. Several low windows were lit, just above river level, and their light flickered and danced on the swirling water.

          A gentle wind rushed around Corvo's ears.

_What are you planning to do, Corvo?_

          "You know what I'm planning," he replied in a whisper, "what happened earlier? You vanished."

_Did I?_

          That was new. The Outsider had been many things in the past months, but never coy. Aware he was being toyed with, Corvo bit back a sigh and dialed the magnifier in his mask until he had a close view of Sokolov's windows. The curtains were drawn, and there was little movement inside. No long shadows fell. It was possible Sokolov had just sat down to eat. Good.

          Corvo blinked down to perch on a street lamp which stood some two yards from the windows. The windowsills were not wide enough to stand on. He had no desire to get wet, but he had little choice but to slide into the water and swim the rest of the way. He was careful to keep his recent stitches above the murk. The last thing he needed was the kind of infection the river could give.

          He reached the window and pulled himself up so he hung by his elbows on the sill. The curtains were parted down the center, a sliver of light through which he could see the room. Sokolov sat to his left, at the head of a dinner table, eating while absorbed in a book. Two whalers stood inside the room, one guarding the doors on the wall opposite Corvo, the other pacing around a fireplace where a modest blaze crackled.

          Drawing his crossbow, Corvo clicked his sleep bolts into place and took his time judging the shots. The whalers looked tired and listless, and neither of them had any idea he was there. He readjusted the mangifier in his mask and lined up with the assassin in front of the fire.

          He pulled the trigger twice, both assassins falling without a cry, and in a clean motion heaved himself into the room, where he landed on his feet and turned the crossbow to Sokolov. The scientist was half-raised, book in hand, face contorted in sheer terror. He watched Corvo for a moment until he suddenly relaxed.

          "Corvo? Is that you?" Sokolov stood up straight, "What in the Void are you doing here?"

          With his free hand, Corvo pulled back his hood and unfastened his mask. When he lifted it away from his face, Sokolov's body shifted from an open stance to a more defensive curl. Evidently, Corvo's anger was showing on his face.

          "You look awful," Sokolov said coolly, smoothing his dark, overgrown hair and tugging at his beard, "I'm, er, sorry about... well."

          He made a vague motion with one hand. Corvo nodded his acceptance, moving around an ornate chair to stand opposite the scientist. His coat dripped river water onto the floor. He tossed his mask onto the table, reaching for a napkin and drying his free hand. He observed the spread of fruit and cheese on the table and picked up a stem of shiny grapes. Sokolov shifted his weight uncomfortably.

          "Sit," Corvo ordered, waving his crossbow for emphasis.

          Sokolov did so, dark eyes flashing nervously, "I hope you're not planning on using that. Again, I mean."

          Placing a grape into his mouth, Corvo glanced sideways down the length of the table. Sokolov's quickly building panic was betraying him in his white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair. Seeing that it was affecting the older man, Corvo allowed the silence to drag out. He made it about halfway through one stem of grapes.

          "Well?" Sokolov finally asked in a desperate tone, "What can I do for you? Or did you come here just to eat all of my food?"

          "What's your arrangement with Daud?"

          "Tense. Next question."

          Corvo gave Sokolov a critical look, and the scientist folded his arms across his chest. He rolled his head, neck releasing a dull crack.

          "Daud demands I create... certain materials for him. In return, I get to live."

          The bolts in Corvo's crossbow were still merely tranquilizers, but he was betting Sokolov hadn't noticed that. He raised the weapon threateningly, taking his aim at Sokolov's head.

          "Alright!" Sokolov held up both hands in surrender, "I-I make a variation of my elixir for him. And a toxic coating for blades. That's all."

          "That's all? Not making old Tyvian poisons?"

          Sokolov went a full shade paler, but did not answer. Corvo looked away in sheer disgust, drawing a breath through his nose. He tossed the remaining grapes back onto the table.

          "Corvo, if I had known what they were going to do with it--"

          "You'd have made it anyway," Corvo awarded him a cold glare, and the scientist withdrew slightly, "I'm not interested in the past."

          "What _are_ you interested in?"

          That list was growing by the minute. Corvo considered the man for a moment, trying to decide between kidnapping him or simply talking to him here. He had maybe an hour before the two guards woke up, though he could always bind and gag them.

          As he weighed the options, he became distantly aware of a faraway cry. It sounded almost like a wail of pain. Then came another, and then several more, each closer than the last.

          "Do you hear--" Sokolov began, but Corvo cut him off with a swift motion of his hand. Turning his back to Sokolov to face the direction of the sound, he darkened his vision and focused hard through the wall. More screaming echoed down the water. He reached blindly for his mask and held it before his face, twirling the magnifier as far at it would go. His mind scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing.

          In the buildings two blocks down, hundreds-- _thousands_ of rats were flooding each floor. They were devouring corpses and whalers alike, the dying screams of the overrun assassins floating up into the night. The swarm ebbed and flowed like liquid, finding cracks in the buildings as they moved south. They were headed directly for Sokolov's house.

          "We have to go," Corvo said over the mangled cries of a whaler, "Now."

          "What is--"

          "Rats," Corvo hooked his crossbow onto his back, restoring his vision before crossing the room to take Sokolov roughly by the arm. The man paled even further, skin turning positively ashen. he stumbled after Corvo as they moved toward the far windows, overlooking the tail end of the district.

          "Where will we go?" Sokolov asked, voice tight with fear, "We're cornered."

          As much as Corvo knew his shoulders would regret it, he had to admit to himself that knocking Sokolov out and carrying him would probably be fastest. He had no desire to reveal the Outsider's gifts to the overzealous Tyvian, let alone test his ability to use those gifts while subduing a conscious and panicking man.

          He gave Sokolov a gentle push, and the scientist stepped in front of him. Corvo threw an arm across the man's throat and choked him until he stopped struggling. Then he slung Sokolov unceremoniously over one shoulder and raised a hand, blinking to a nearby rooftop. He made it just in time. Below, the rats overtook the house, spilling into the water outside the windows and knocking over the furniture. They squealed and shrieked, smelling living flesh. They tore into the unconscious guards with a series of horrific squelching sounds. Corvo felt a pang of guilt. Killing them himself would have been kinder.

          Just before he turned to go, a strange movement caught his eye. He darkened his sight again and took a long look at the endless sea of rats. Something was moving amongst them, flitting in and out of existence even as Corvo watched. A low-hanging mist, black and pulsing like smoke, crackling with electricity. A shock of recognition ran from Corvo's lungs to his feet, and a second later he was running along the roof as fast as he could with Sokolov on his shoulder. He tore west, into the abandoned district, blinking across long gaps until he ran out of energy. When he felt he'd gone a safe distance, he paused on a balcony, panting. He slid Sokolov to the floor and looked back as his mind reeled.

          His heart was thundering, cold sweat beading down his back. The Outsider buzzed in his ear, saying nothing but letting out intermittent huffs of what might have been amusement.

          The clouds over the district were ringed in a faint red glow. The view was so like the Void that Corvo closed his eyes hard and opened them again, but the sight remained. A sense of dread he'd not felt in months settled around him. He caught his breath, trying to assess the quickest route back to the distillery. He had to get out of Rudshore. He had to warn Slackjaw, warn Martin--

          Keening laughter echoed unnaturally through the streets, though its source was leagues away. It was followed by an inquiring call, sharp and discordant.

          _Dearie? Where have you gone?_

          The scuffling of the rats could be heard nearby now, and Corvo braced himself to lift Sokolov. He would have to run again.

          _Dearie,_ came the scratching voice, fading in the sky somewhere entirely too close, _I hope you'll stay for dinner. We're ever so hungry._

          Corvo raised his hand and bolted, blinking away into the night with the sound of laughter chasing his feet.


	5. Shoreline

          The swarm was persistent. Corvo had to give the old witch credit, Granny Rags did not give up easily, and the rats were tireless in their pursuit. Corvo stood, doubled over on a slanted roof, Sokolov lying at his feet. Corvo had dosed him with a sleep dart minutes before. The Tyvian was out cold.

          Corvo took a heaving breath, hands on his knees. He had blinked as far as he could before the mark had ceased to respond. He'd been running for a half-hour, with Sokolov hanging like a deadweight over his shoulders. He barely had strength to maintain the Outsider's sight. He had to be careful not to completely exhaust himself. The hazy grey of the Void was the only thing ensuring he could see the rats as they teemed in the buildings below.

          He was grateful they hadn't figured out how to get onto the rooftops. Many of the buildings in the district had lost their lowest floors to water. The rats had not yet discovered a way above it, it seemed, instead having to cut around the flooded areas.

          Motion at the corner of his eye made him turn. A wave of rats rushed toward him from the southern side of the building. If they found a way to the roof, they would overtake him in minutes. Letting out a string of violent curses, Corvo reached down and dragged Sokolov by the arm, gripping the Tyvian around the chest and hoisting him up. As he slung the snoring man over his back, something in his shoulder twinged. The muscles of his upper back froze in place.

          “Damn you,” Corvo muttered through clenched teeth, “damn you, damn her, damn the _rats--”_

          He staggered for a few paces, then found his stride and began to run again, footsteps heavy on the slate roofs. At the end of the apartment block, there was a sizable drop to the next building. Corvo made a running leap, clearing the gap easily and landing on his feet, allowing his knees to buckle. His forward momentum proved too great for the sudden stop, and he found himself pitching headlong across the roof, with Sokolov tumbling over him. Corvo's face slammed into the gravelly tiles.

          After a wheeze of pain, he allowed himself a heavy sigh. He pushed himself up on his hands. His face burned, and he was sure it was bleeding. Sokolov lay a foot away, blissfully oblivious in his slumber. Corvo glanced briefly behind to check the progress of the rats. Mercifully, they were trapped a few buildings behind, stuck between a collapsed stair and a deep alley full of water. He looked to Sokolov and found the scientist was beginning to slide slowly down the other side of the pitched roof.

          Corvo moved quickly forward, catching Sokolov by the collar and pulling him back. Sokolov mumbled in his sleep. With another long glance at the rats, Corvo grasped the scientist with scraped hands and pulled him up. He could only hope the swarm was too preoccupied with their watery dilemma to follow him further. He steeled himself to run again.

 

          Corvo found shelter in a fifth-floor office, a small, cramped space full of dark wood and shattered furniture. Corvo deposited Sokolov as gently as possible in the center of the empty room, drawing in a breath of relief as the weight on his shoulder was lifted. He took stock of the surroundings as he massaged his aching shoulders, leaving Sokolov to snore in the dust.

          They were safe enough for now. The swarm had fallen back a half mile ago, and now the rats were picking through the wreckage of the old neighborhood just beyond the reach of the Outsider's vision. Corvo thought he could still hear them, scratching and scuffling in the distance, but they were drawing no closer. The rats had either lost track of them or lost interest.

          Catching his breath, Corvo leaned against a wall and slid down into a seated position. Some of the wallpaper peeled off onto his coat. He balanced his elbows on his knees, rubbing his eyes with both hands and avoiding the fresh scab down the side of his face. He was about as angry with himself as he'd ever been. He should have known. He should have expected this from the second he last saw the old witch. Another life he ought to have extinguished when he'd had the chance. Why had his damnable pity extended to _her?_

          It had seemed so needless then, he reflected. The woman could hardly be held accountable for her actions. Her mind was long gone, warped by the Void. He had been a fool, he now realized, to think she would accept defeat and leave him alone. Granny Rags was as determined as she was desperate. If she thought his death would please the Outsider, he might as well consider his days numbered.

          Sokolov began to stir, choking and coughing as he inhaled a mouthful of dust. He pushed himself up on one arm, looking around before regarding Corvo with an expression of distrust.

          "Where are we?" Sokolov huffed, "Where have you taken me?"

          "We're at the edge of Rudshore and the old fish market," Corvo said bluntly.

          Sokolov sat up, suddenly agitated, “The rats--!”

          “Gone for now.”

          To his credit, Sokolov accepted this with a solemn nod and stared hard at the floor, as if attempting to make peace with the night's events. He stroked his beard thoughtfully as Corvo planned their next move.

          He was out of energy with which to summon the Void, so travel would be limited to whatever progress they could make on foot. He guessed Sokolov would be a slow traveling companion, but Corvo's shoulder was complaining fiercely and he was in no mood to carry the Tyvian any further.

          The rats had chased them in the opposite direction from the distillery. Corvo noted bitterly that they were also headed away from Daud's territory. As if the assassin needed another turn of good luck. At least, Corvo reminded himself, this meant the swarm would have to travel that much further to reach Bottle Street.

          His mind flashed through a series of scenarios, none of them pleasant. A vivid image arose: the distillery overrun by rats, that awful laughter ringing as teeth sank into flesh. If it came to it, the gang would put up a mighty battle, and would sooner burn their home to the ground than surrender. And Slackjaw... a shiver crawled up Corvo's spine as he envisioned Slackjaw screaming, dragged down by the swarm.

          He set his teeth and banished the thought, instead trying to plot the fastest way back. The river was their best hope, now, if they could find a boat with an engine. They were almost at the edge of Rudshore. A little further and they'd reach a small fishing harbor near the remains of the market. That would have to do for now.

          Corvo turned his attention to Sokolov, who was watching him with a cautious expression, sharp features softened in the darkness. He was filled with a sudden disgust for the man. Whatever Sokolov had done on that shrine, it was undoubtedly cruel. Corvo wondered whether they endless screaming had come from the whale bones or the jar. He had known Sokolov to experiment on humans before, but that had been at the height of the plague, and in the name of a cure. A shrine to the Outsider was worship, not science. It was evident enough that Sokolov was desperate to reach the Void. Corvo tightened his marked hand into a fist.

          “What have you done?” Corvo asked, too exhausted for tact.

          "I beg your pardon?" Sokolov pulled back, affronted.

          Corvo's voice grew low and strained, "I saw the shrine. The heart."

          Sokolov frowned at him, eyes narrowing, "I'd have thought you of all people would know exactly I'm doing."

          "I'm no witch," Corvo spat, feeling a flush of heated anger rise to his face.

          "No? Could have fooled me," Sokolov said calmly, brushing dirt from his sleeve, "I've heard what the Overseers say about you. That the Outsider walks in your wake. Do you deny it?"

          Corvo merely glowered, falling silent.

          Sokolov gave him a vicious smirk and a low chuckle, "We should all be so fortunate."

          "Fortune had nothing to do with it," Corvo said bitterly, and leaned his head back against the wall. Pain flared sharply at his stitches, and he let out a brief sound of discomfort and placed his hand between his head and the wall. His hair was still drenched in sweat.

          "Are you injured?" Sokolov asked, and his tone gave Corvo the impression the Tyvian was equally concerned and excited, "I could take a look for you."

          Corvo funneled every bit of frustration he had into the glare he directed toward Sokolov, who held up his hands.

          "Or not," the scientist inclined his head, "I was merely offering my services."

          Sokolov's voice held a little of what might have been honesty, or maybe it was only hurt pride. Corvo watched him stand up, stretch his limbs, then make a short circle around the small room before folding his arms to loom over Corvo like an ill-tempered schoolmaster.

          “So?” Sokolov demanded, “Where are we going?”

          Corvo stared up at him, amazed that Sokolov had the gall to be angry with him.

          “I assumed you had a plan when you kidnapped me-- for the second time, I might add,” Sokolov tapped a foot, “Where do you call home these days, eh? Nowhere near the old pub. The Estate District, perhaps?”

          Corvo dodged the question, “I'm taking you upriver.”

          “My work is here,” Sokolov snapped.

          "Work?" Corvo ground out as a crackling buzz built in his head, "What I saw wasn't _work._ It was slaughterhouse butchery. Whose heart was in that jar? Some poor weeper you caged like a dog?"

          The most unsettling series of expressions passed over Sokolov's face, beginning with total shock and moving from fear to a wretched mix of sympathy and anger. The Tyvian turned away sharply and cleared his throat forcibly. Corvo waited, utterly confused, as the noise in his head crescendoed to an almost painful pitch.

 _Careful, Corvo,_ said the Outsider, and his voice was so clear that Corvo had a fleeting impression that the deity was just over his shoulder, standing a breath away.

          "Perhaps you're right," Sokolov said shakily, "we'll go upriver. Wherever you say. Damn the work anyway."

          He added a rough laugh that rang disturbingly false. Corvo watched in bewilderment as the scientist paced around the empty room, kicking up a low plume of dust. Sokolov turned on his heel, dark eyes glassy in the dim moonlight.

          “So. How do you propose to get upriver?” he asked with forced cheer, clapping his hands together.

          Corvo stared appraisingly for a long moment, “The old market.”

          “Ah, smart, very smart. Steal a boat, if we can,” Sokolov's tone of voice was alarmingly casual, “Will we be passing by Crury Wharf?”

          Corvo blinked at him, “Why?”

          “There's someone there I wanted to... look up.”

          “We're not stopping to run errands,” Corvo said firmly, wiping his brow. A layer of sweat and dirt came off onto his fingers.

          “I'm afraid I'll have to insist. I have a contact there guarding a bit of research. Something too important to leave behind.”

          Corvo's face must have displayed his reservations. With the rats following so close, stopping for any reason was tantamount to suicide. Sokolov took a few cautious steps closer and met his gaze, nodding for emphasis as he spoke.

          "It's not what you think, Corvo. I assure you, it's vastly more valuable."

 

* * *

 

          Crury Wharf, or what remained of it, was a rotting wood jetty and dock, peppered with abandoned boats and the jagged remnants of mooring posts. The night sky above was dark with heavy clouds, the river black as pitch. Though there was no activity on the dock itself, the wharf held the empty shells of a few shops which seemed to have been converted into makeshift shelters. Beneath a rotted sign reading _Fishmonger_ , there was the dim glow of a wood-burning stove. Figures congregated around the light.

          "Damn," Sokolov muttered beside Corvo, "what are they doing here?"

          "Not friends of yours, then?"

          "Not that I'm aware, no."

          Corvo suppressed a sigh behind his mask. They were crouched behind a low wall separating the street from the wharf, where an open-air market had once hosted local river trade. The figures in the shop were listless, but unbowed by plague. One of them was sharpening a knife.

          "Hatters?" Corvo asked.

          "How should I know?" Sokolov snapped under his breath, "They're wearing hats, if that's any indication."

          Corvo closed his eyes briefly. His patience had run thin hours ago and Sokolov was in a foul mood. They had made awful time from Rudshore and this newest obstacle was trying Corvo's nerves. His hand was growing itchy as he toyed with his folded sword. It would be so easy to ambush them. There were only a few of them, and he could clear the area in less than a minute if--

          "'Lo, gents," called a voice, and the figures turned to face someone just outside of Corvo's line of sight, "Quiet night, huh?"

          Corvo's stomach went weightless. He turned to Sokolov, grabbing the older man's arm and shaking him slightly. Words failed him completely.

          "Corvo, wait, let me expl--" Sokolov whispered, but Corvo had already stood up and begun walking toward the shop front, hands empty and plans forgotten.

          He made it a few yards before one of the men in the shop shouted, "Hey!"

          A gunshot rang out, and Corvo ducked to one side as men spilled out of the old fish shop. There were more of them than he'd realized, as five figures rushed to encircle him. One of them ran at him, knife raised, and Corvo knocked him out cold with a punch to the head.

          "It's the Ghost!" shouted a younger voice.

          The others surrounded him. One man, dressed definitively in the loud plaids of Hatter garb, thrust a broken bottle in Corvo's direction. Corvo caught his arm and pulled, using the man's own momentum to flip him onto his back. A series of clicks echoed as pistols were cocked. He was in immediate danger of being truly outmatched when a familiar voice broke through.

          "Stop! Hold your fire!"

          The men froze immediately, their posture relaxing in a wave. The source of the rough voice picked his way through the crowd, followed by the puzzled stares of his peers. Corvo watched him approach with his heart in his throat.

          "Well," the old man crossed his arms, "Corvo Attano, as I live and breathe."

          Corvo was still too stunned to speak. With unsteady hands, he reached slowly for his mask, removing it amidst hushed murmurs from the crowd. He drew a low breath of fresh air, pulling back his hood.

          He had to swallow before he could say, "Samuel?"

          The old sailor stood without moving a muscle, face unreadable and posture defensive. He looked older than Corvo remembered, his hair maybe a little whiter and the lines of his face now deeper. He had grown a short beard. He was clearly exhausted, and somewhat gaunt. But he was otherwise unchanged, undamaged, and, most shockingly, _still alive._

          He scuffed a bootheel against the ground, "Corvo. You gonna tell me what you're doing here?"

          "They said you were dead,” Corvo said slowly, each word an effort, “Lost at sea."

          " _Hmph_ ," Samuel made a sound of disdain, shaking his head, "wouldn't have looked very good for Martin if I'd lived, would it?"

          Corvo stared, embarassed. He had never once considered the possibility that the casualty report might be false.

          "Besides," Samuel continued in a dark tone, "after what happened, I think I'm more comfortable with people believin' I'm dead. I sleep better this way."

          His eyes held such contempt that Corvo had to glance down. So Samuel hadn't forgiven him. That was only fair. Their names were permanently intertwined in the gruesome history of the last weeks of the Empire. One headline had branded them Death and His Ferryman, respectively. A hollow kind of shame pulled the color from Corvo's face.

          Samuel was watching him in cold appraisal, "So. What do you-- oh."

          Corvo followed Samuel's gaze, turning to see Sokolov walking toward them. The scientist inclined his head in greeting.

          "Samuel," said Sokolov as if they were meeting for a friendly lunch, "good to see you. I'm afraid I don't recognize your company. There are more of them than I remember."

          "Been pickin' up strays," Samuel stood a little straighter, a hint of pride in his eyes, "we're a ragtag bunch, alright."

          Corvo glanced over the crowd. Mostly men, though there were some women and, to Corvo's surprise, young children. They were a motley collection. Corvo noted City Watch uniforms, Overseer harnesses, Hatter plaids and fine tailored jackets. Most of them, however, were clothed simply. More and more were now peeking out from the shops, curious about the commotion. There was a constant whisper, and Corvo heard his name repeated several times. Fully assembled, there were about fifty people on the wharf.

          "What is all this?" Corvo asked.

          "Sanctuary," Samuel said curtly, "Somewhere the High Overseer's claws can't reach."

          Corvo was nonplussed, "Why would the Abbey be hunting them?"

          Samuel regarded Corvo as if he were a child in need of a harsh lesson. Corvo recoiled slightly despite himself.

          "I'd have thought it was obvious," Samuel's voice was low and terse, "Every last one of us has the plague."

 


	6. Haunt

          An hour later, with a small fire blazing in the stove before him, Corvo still felt the penetrating cold. He had not been able to shake it since arriving at the wharf. Sokolov and Samuel had disappeared somewhere to talk business. They made it abundantly clear that neither of them wanted Corvo present, as it was, in Samuel's words, "None of your concern, anyhow."

          Corvo had been left alone with the refugees. They were mostly terrified of him, even the young woman who'd offered him a place by the fire and promptly left. He could hardly blame them.

          He was frustrated by his own exhaustion, weighing him down as he warmed his hands. The news of Samuel's survival followed by the news of his illness was almost too heavy to consider. Corvo longed futilely for the cot in Slackjaw's office. He checked the thought immediately. He was done with comfort, he reminded himself. Months ago, in Coldridge, he had sworn never again to be lulled by the safe and familiar. He had broken this rule only once since then, and it had cost him.

          He shook himself a little to dispel the cold, then began rolling his shoulder, easing the muscle out of a tight knot. A disconcerting series of clicks emanated from his collarbone, and his neck twinged. He let out a low sigh.

          Quick movement to his left drew his attention, and he reached automatically for his sword. A sharp, high pitched gasp sounded.

          Corvo scanned the edge of the shelter, where a missing wall left the room open to the wharf. A slight breeze swirled in. He relaxed when he saw a small head peeking around a box. A child's face stared at him, obscured by shadow. Corvo waited a moment, then turned back to the stove.

          There was more movement on the periphery of his sight-- small feet padding carefully over the dirty floor-- and Corvo gave a slight of smile as a tiny figure perched just beyond his left shoulder.

          "Are you really the Ghost?"

          Corvo turned and found a young girl watching him with wide eyes. She was about Emily's age, he noticed with a pang. She had a cloud of black hair, held back by a tattered ribbon. She was not wearing nearly enough clothing to combat the chill.

          Corvo gestured to a nearby stool, close to the stove, but she remained in place.

          "Ennick says you're the Ghost," she said, rocking on her heels, "I thought he made you up."

          "Well, _I'm_ real," Corvo said softly, "I'm not sure about this Ghost."

          Her eyes lit up, "Then you can't be him, 'cause you'd know. The Ghost is this awful monster who comes up out of the river. Ennick says he used to be a noble, but his face got all cut up. He wears a mask just like that."

          She pointed at Corvo's mask, resting on his thigh.

          Corvo trailed a finger along his cheek, where the hard skin of a scar stretched from his eye to his jaw. A brief stab of phantom pain ran down his face, a whisper of the torturer's iron.

          "What else do people say about this Ghost?" he asked.

          "Lots of things," she shrugged, moving just close enough to reach out a hand toward the mask. She stopped short of touching it, letting her hand drop and saying, "Ennick thinks he can control the plague.”

          "And what do you think?"

          "I think that's stupid," she said matter-of-factly, "if he could give everyone the plague, he wouldn't use a mask, or a sword, or anything. Everyone would already be dead."

          Corvo was a little unnerved by the girl's total calm. Her eyes had not left the mask, gleaming in the firelight. Corvo lifted the metal and cloth contraption and held it out to her. She pressed small, reverent fingers to the faceplates.

          "There's only one mask like this in all the world," Corvo said quietly.

          The little girl gasped and withdrew her hand, looking up at him in shock. He winked at her, and was rewarded by a conspiratorial smile. She put a finger to her lips.

          "I won't tell," she said, "Besides, you're not the Ghost."

          "Oh? How do you know that?"

          She cocked her head, "Because you haven't eaten anyone yet."

          The response was so unexpected that Corvo let out a rough bark of laughter, one hand hovering before his mouth. The girl giggled along, adding, "Well, you _haven't."_

          Corvo covered a smile with a fist, leaning on his knee, "You're the expert."

          There was a distant call of, "Amaline!" and the little girl stood bolt upright. She glanced nervously down the wharf, then up at Corvo.

          "I'm not supposed to talk to you," she said sullenly.

          Corvo looked down at the mask in his hands. His other face stared back unhelpfully. He considered it for a moment, nodding.

          "No" he agreed, "you're not. Go on."

          She hesitated. The call came again, closer this time. Corvo stood abruptly. At his side, Amaline stepped back. She stared up at him with the first weak flicker of fear in her eyes.

          "Go," he told her, and she took off at a run down the length of the wharf. She slipped into the night, her silhouette joining another mass of figures around a distant fire. Footsteps rang along the stone ground behind Corvo, and he turned to see Samuel and Sokolov approaching.

          "Making friends, I see," Samuel said gruffly, "I'll thank you to frighten as few of the little ones as possible."

          He crossed his arms, watching over his shoulder as Sokolov arrived behind him. The inventor seemed to be in better spirits.

          "Well then," Sokolov said brightly, "Corvo, I am ready to leave when you are."

          Corvo glanced between the two men, "You're not going to tell me what this is about?"

          "Sokolov can explain while you get to wherever you're going," Samuel replied, the edge to his voice sharper than Corvo had ever heard it, "I want you out of--"

          He broke off as a deep, rattling cough escaped his lips. He thrust a handkerchief against his mouth, coughing so hard that his next intake of air caused him to bend over double. Corvo stepped forward, but Samuel thrust an arm out to shove him roughly back.

          " _No_ ," Samuel heaved, "I don't-- want your help. Out."

          Corvo stood helplessly in place. Sokolov moved between them and steadied Samuel with one hand, a gesture the old sailor accepted with a scowl. Sokolov said something under his breath, and Corvo could not make out any of it except "twice a day." Samuel nodded and thanked him.

          "I will return," Sokolov said, "once my business with Corvo is concluded. I trust your people will be safe?"

          "Safe enough," Samuel cleared his throat, pocketing his handkerchief. Even in the dim light, Corvo could make out a dark stain along the edges of the cloth. The persistent cold set in again, a damp chill riding in from the sea.

          "Good," Sokolov bobbed his head decisively, "Corvo, let's be off. Samuel has been kind enough to loan us one of the old riverboats."

          A creeping uncertainty was snaking its way up Corvo's spine. Something felt off kilter, between Samuel's belligerence and Sokolov's sudden, joyful eagerness. Corvo stared hard at Samuel, willing the older man to give him even a slight hint. Samuel merely returned his gaze with a detached stare.

          Sokolov was already walking away. Turning reluctantly from Samuel, Corvo jogged a few paces to catch up.

          "What happened?" Corvo demanded once they were out a good distance from the wharf. Sokolov did not answer him, walking at a faster pace than Corvo would have thought possible. His face was a blank mask of focus, his lips pressed tight and his cheeks pale. Corvo realized belatedly that what he had mistaken for eagerness was, in fact, something much worse. Sokolov was not eager to _go_ anywhere. He was desperate to leave.

          Corvo grabbed Sokolov's arm, pulling him to a sudden stop. They were about halfway down the pier, well out of earshot of the shops. Boats bobbed at their moorings, splashing a loud undertone.

          Sokolov finally met Corvo's anxious stare, "Corvo, I swear on my life I will explain once we cast off. But right now, we need to leave. Immediately."

          Corvo threw one more look over his shoulder, seeing figures congregate at the fishmonger's. They seemed perfectly calm. Hesitantly, Corvo nodded his agreement and Sokolov sighed in relief.

          "Then let us go," Sokolov headed for a jetty where a small powerboat waited, "Oh, and I hope you know how to drive one of these."

 

* * *

 

          The Wrenhaven was silent as the first light of dawn painted the sky. Slumped halfway over the tiller, Corvo leaned port and steered the boat around a buoy. At the other end of the short craft, Sokolov slumbered peacefully. Corvo was beginning to suspect the Tyvian knew how to pilot a boat after all, and had successfully tricked him into taking a night-long watch. He could barely keep his eyes open.

          They would soon arrive at the edge of Bottle Street territory. Corvo was looking forward to at least being able to bathe. There was river silt hardening in the pockets of his coat, and the stench of the rats had never quite dissipated.

          He gazed listlessly into the water, reflecting over the previous day. Once they'd returned to the distillery, he would warn Slackjaw of Granny Rags' return. He had never mentioned to the boss that he had let the old witch live. He felt sure Slackjaw would be just thrilled. Once that unpleasantness was out of the way, Corvo would be free to interrogate Sokolov. As he recalled, the Tyvian was a fairly easy man to threaten.

          He pondered what he would ask Sokolov once given the chance. Martin's words had driven him to Rudshore, but Corvo's thoughts now strayed to the shrine in the lab and the heart in the jar. Gravest heresy, as the Overseers would call it. He wondered if Sokolov could hear the screams. He shot the man a wary glance. Sokolov slumbered peacefully, curled on his side with his head resting on his arm.

          A distant ship's horn sounded far downriver. It signaled once, a clear, deep groan, then fell silent. A greeting, Corvo thought vaguely. Perhaps a whaler coming into port. He stared out across the glassy waves, wishing he could take the boat any faster. He maintained a crawling pace. They had not escaped a witch and her thousand rats only to be caught by an Overseer patrol.

          As he watched the water, Corvo became gradually aware of a slight change on the river's surface. It was difficult to see at first, a smoothing in the choppy water turning the river darker as they progressed. Soon, the blackness was so absolute that the water no longer shone in the early light. It gave the illusion of the little boat floating over a gaping hole. Corvo thought it might be the slick of a chemical spill from one of the slaughterhouses, but they were too far upriver for that. Pale shapes began to flicker beneath the surface, too quick to be seen. Too quick to be fish, he noted with unease.

          Shifting slowly, he leaned over the side of the boat. The grey shapes were either too deep or too distant to be recognizable. Corvo put his face close to the water, his eyes straining to adjust. One of the pale flickers rose up toward him, growing clearer as it surfaced. Corvo steadied his grip on the siding, his mind struggling to identify what he was seeing. The grey shape broke the surface of the water and Corvo found himself staring into the wide, unseeing eyes of a corpse. He jerked back, shouting in surprise, and the face sank rapidly into the depths.

          He scrambled to his feet, turning to see the dark stain spread across the river, expanding outward from the boat until the Wrenhaven was completely black. A hush descended, and Corvo was suddenly able to hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The waves still rocked, but they made no sound. The quiet was stifling, and as Corvo watched, pale blurs began to materialize like ice all around the little boat. Faces appeared only to vanish again, features twisted and bloated by the water.

          "What--?" Corvo raised his marked hand as if to shield himself.

          The river glittered silver with the faces of the dead. Corvo's heart raced. A low hum was building in his head, and, he realized with a jolt, beneath his feet. The noise he was accustomed to hearing in his own mind was echoing over the river, a crackle like electricity magnified into a roar. It grew louder, vibrating the botttom of the boat. Corvo's feet registered a sense of vertigo as the vessel rocked.

          He glanced down and, to his total bewilderment, found that Sokolov was still asleep.

          "Sokolov," he said, but he could not hear his own voice over the hum, " _Sokolov!"_

          The scientist did not stir. Corvo turned around, looking anywhere for help. The sound from the river grew deafening. Corvo placed his hands over his ears, grinding the fabric of his hood against the side of his face, but the sound was inside his head as well, and it rang just as gratingly there.

          He shouted again, this time in pain as a sudden pressure behind his eyes sent him reeling. The hum swelled, falling in pitch to a dying groan that found physical purchase in Corvo's eardrums. His head throbbed viciously with the depth of the sound. A horriffic splitting feeling caused him to grope desperately, expecting to feel blood. It felt like his skull was cracking in half.

          "Outsider--" he managed, despite not knowing what to say next.

 _Corvo,_ came the reply, and it rippled all around the boat. The voice came from the air, from the water, from the riverbed. It was louder than anything Corvo had ever heard, and it was softly whispering in his ear. Corvo maintained a vicegrip on his own head, his eyes screwed shut.

 _You never cease to amaze,_ the Outsider said evenly, as though his voice were not shredding through Corvo's brain like a hot blade, _Such company you keep._

          Corvo made a choked sound.

_A warning, Corvo._

          The sounds from beneath the boat took up a steady rhythm, the hurried pounding of a drum, a noise so deep that Corvo was sure the earth itself was rumbling. He could barely breathe. The noise kept time with his heart.

_You're almost out of time._

          The pain subsided as Corvo fell weakly to his hands and knees. His face landed against the cool metal floor of the boat, and darkness thick as the blackened river surrounded him, descending with total silence.

 

          There was a thudding noise, and Corvo awoke with his head pillowed on his arms, lying on the engine case with the tiller listing beside him. The sky was still dark, the low clouds parting to reveal the slender light of a crescent moon. Sokolov was staring at him, one hand balled into a fist where he'd banged on the metal siding to get Corvo's attention.

          "Corvo, you're falling asleep. Are you alright?"

          "Fine," Corvo said hurriedly, rubbing the back of his neck. Beside him, the boat engine whined faithfully. They were moving slowly, drifting east a little and bobbing on the current. They'd made barely any progress. The night was quiet, with few other boats on the river and only the faintest noise emanating from the factories along the shore. Corvo's breath made small clouds in the cold.

          "I'm sure it has nothing do with that head injury of yours," Sokolov huffed.

          Corvo did not respond, instead watching the Wrenhaven and feeling as though there was something he ought to have remembered. He had been dreaming, that much he knew. There had been faces in the water and... a voice? It was the first real nightmare he'd had in months, not counting his own memories or sojourns into the Void. Those he always remembered. Whatever it was he had forgotten must have been a dream after all. He put it out of his mind, focusing on steering the boat toward the center of the river.

          "Well," Sokolov cleared his throat, "now that we're on our way, do you mind informing me as to _why_ you've kidnapped me?”

          Corvo awarded him a dark glare, “I saved your life.”

          “Ah. Yes, I suppose that's true,” Sokolov admitted, “Regardless, I'd like to know where we're going.”

          Corvo shook his head, “First, you're going to tell me what happened on back there.”

          “I've...” Sokolov rubbed his temple in an agitated way, “I've been sneaking them elixir. Small batches, nothing Daud would miss. I've been keeping them alive.”

          “What else?” Corvo regarded the Tyvian with suspicion, “What was it you wanted to retrieve?”

          Sokolov glanced out over the water, as if searching for a way to avoid answering, “You won't like it.”

          “I don't like being lied to, either,” Corvo snapped.

          Sokolov patted his breast pocket, “Blood samples.”

          It took Corvo a moment to comprehend what Sokolov meant. He drew in a hissing breath of disgust.

          “You're using them,” Corvo said heavily, “as test subjects.”

          “It's not like what you saw before,” Sokolov held up a hand, “They volunteered.”

          “There are _children_ in that camp.”

          “All the more reason to test my formula now,” the scientist's tone grew stiff and defensive, “I have ten subjects on the wharf, seven adults and three children, all with varying stages of the illness. I've been giving them incremental doses of three different formulas for a few weeks now.”

          “And?”

          Sokolov sighed, “Tell me, have you taken any elixir recently? Mine or... others?”

          The slight lift in Sokolov's voice suggested he might have just guessed where they were headed, but Corvo kept his face expressionless and his posture steady. He nodded, recalling a full vial of the stuff Slackjaw had forced on him while waiting for his head to heal.

          “Did it work?” Sokolov asked quietly.

          “What do you mean?”

          “Did you feel any different? Any more alert, any less tired?”

          “No,” Corvo said slowly. He hadn't thought anything of it at the time.

          Sokolov nodded, giving a low, bitter laugh, “Well, take my word for it, it wouldn't have done a damned thing if you'd caught the plague.”

          An eerie quiet settled between them.

          “You see,” Sokolov said, and his voice held a kind of frustrated resentment, “this plague is no ordinary fever. When it first broke out, my fellows at the Academy and I were convinced it was related to other diseases brought by sailors. We thought--”

          He broke off in an unsettling chuckle, and Corvo was surprised to see a moment of vulnerability from the older man. Sokolov was clearly angry with himself, pressing a hand to his mouth before continuing, “Every single one of us treated the plague as we would any stubborn infection. Even our friend Piero believed it could be cured through traditional means. Maybe it could have, if we'd caught it early enough.”

          “What are you saying?”

          “How do I explain...? The plague afflicting my newest subjects is not the same plague they would have caught six months ago.”

          A bitter wind from the river blew through, and Corvo felt the low stirrings of fear.

          “The plague no longer responds to my elixir,” Sokolov said carefully, “because it is changing. It is... evolving, in a way. It has mutated into something neither I nor anyone else can hope to treat.”

          Corvo's throat worked as he swallowed a clenching panic. His mind brought him images of Amaline's small hands reaching for his mask.

          “How long do they have?”

          “Assuming my newest formula goes the way of the rest? A week, perhaps.”

          “And-- you left them there?” Corvo had to work to keep his voice down as his words echoed over the water, “You left them to die?”

          Sokolov's posture dripped disgust, even in the low light, “No. I got us out alive. This is what you wanted, isn't it? We're headed upriver.”

          Corvo recalled how Samuel had pushed him away, gnarled hands strong despite the blood on his lips. _I want you out of here,_ Samuel had tried to say. Corvo's heart missed a beat.

          “Any longer and we risked exposure,” Sokolov was saying, “it's not airborne, not yet, but I wouldn't take chances. Samuel had the worst of it and--”

          “ _Shut up,”_ Corvo snarled, something of Slackjaw's tone coming through and sounding harsh even to him, “Stop talking.”

          Sokolov obeyed, folding his hands and looking out toward the far shore. The city docks were calm, the buildings along the river empty of light and reduced to flat shapes in the dark. Corvo leaned hard on the tiller and pushed the little boat into a higher speed. He would be grateful when this night was over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most Month of Void-appropriate chapter thus far, so I'm glad I get to publish it now.  
> Next chapter: High Chaos.


	7. Claws

          They arrived at the edge of the Distillery District just as dawn broke over the horizon. Corvo killed the engine in the shallows near the district's sewer piping and dragged the boat onto dry land. He pulled his mask on, clicking the stays into place. Sokolov stood nearby, shifting nervously.

          “Forgive me if I'm a little apprehensive,” Sokolov muttered, breaking several hours' worth of silence, “but are we going to march down Clavering and wait for someone to shoot us?”

          “No,” Corvo said crisply, “you're going to wait here until I make sure the way is clear.”

          “Clear?” Sokolov gave an incredulous breath of false laughter, “You mean between the Overseers, Daud, and the Bottle Street Gang?”

          Corvo edged past the Tyvian, glancing down the length of the sandy spit beneath the outer wall of the district. Just over that wall was the mouth of Clavering Boulevard. There was no sign of activity as far as Corvo could see, on the beach or on the remains of the unfinished bridge above, which jutted out into the river like a dead limb.

          “Just worry about the Overseers,” he said to Sokolov.

          “I do,” Sokolov grumbled, “which is why I made my home as far away from them as possible, thank you very much.”

          Corvo shoved him lightly back. Sokolov stepped back into the boat and sat down with an agitated sigh.

          Drawing his sword, Corvo picked his way along the shore, hiding behind shipping containers and scanning for signs of life. There were a few rats, but not in large numbers. He could hear no footsteps or voices as he crossed beneath the arch of the broken stone bridge. A quick sweep of the stairs leading up toward the street revealed nothing unusual, instead offering an unnerving hush and the glisten of morning dew.

          Corvo stepped into the open clearing atop the cliff's edge, once a gathering point for river ferry patrons. Now it was a square patch of brown grass with several rusting dumpsters and, most unsettlingly, no Overseers. Corvo darted up the stairs leading to the street, then pressed himself against the cement wall between the cliff and the city. He edged around it, glancing up Endoria Street.

          The entire length of the cobblestone street was deserted. A few bits of trash blew by in the breeze. Where were the Overseers, Corvo asked himself, and what could possibly tear them away from Clavering? A quick glance at the barricade blocking the boulevard showed the metal wall still stood, and a watchtower chugged away just beyond, its searchlight pointing up and down the empty streets.

          There was a gentle buzzing in his ear.

_Trouble, Corvo?_

          “Maybe,” Corvo breathed, still pressed into the cement wall.

_Where have all of Martin's toy soldiers gone, I wonder?_

          “No, _I_ wonder,” Corvo corrected impatiently, “you could tell me right now.”

_How dull things would be, if I told you everything you wanted to know._

          “Something's off. They'd never abandon Clavering unless...”

          Unless they were at war. Corvo felt a tightening of breath accompanied by an urgent foreboding. Moving as quietly as he could, he made a running start for the corner of Bottle Street, then blinked up onto a rooftop opposite the distillery door.

          Creeping along the roofline, he gave himself a wide view of the streets below. There was still no activity, Overseer or otherwise. Then, cutting through the quiet, a gunshot. Then another. A volley of gunfire followed by screams. The noise came from the distillery, where a thick haze of smoke was rising steadily above the skyline.

          The Abbey would only attack the Bottle Street Gang on their own territory if they were desperate. Chances were good, he reasoned, that they were looking for him. Martin had let him go just to send an army after him. A flash of rage burned through him. He blinked down to stand in front of the distillery door, drawing his pistol. If Martin wanted a fight, he would get the fight of his life. Corvo threw open the door and charged in.

          Morning light poured across the open yard of the distillery. From Corvo's vantage point in the little alcove by the street, several dead bodies could be seen, and they were not at all what he had expected. The tight feeling in his chest hardened into the frigid seep of fear. Lying in the mud, several whalers' masks glinted in the sun. Corvo took off at a sprint.

          He rounded the corner to find that the situation was already wildly out of hand. The entire front wall of the distillery was burning, fed by several barrels of whale oil. Most of the surrounding rooftops were ablaze. A small war was being waged just outside the building.

          The whalers had clearly rushed in over the barricade at the end of the yard, forming a wide flank around the gang. There were easily a hundred of them, vastly outnumbering the usual number of men on duty at the distillery. Corvo could only hope someone had gone for reinforcements.

          The Bottle Street Boys, pushed back against the front of the distillery, were using whiskey bottles as makeshift grenades. They had set part of the yard on fire with an overturned barrel of oil, and the whalers were having difficulty fighting in close quarters without being caught in the flames. The fire split the battle in two, drawing a final line of defense some ten yards from the front door. But enough whalers were fighting with swords, and the gang members were not particularly well-trained with their guns. The Bottle Street Gang was in deep trouble.

          The mass of bodies was thickest just beneath the stone archway halfway across the yard, the small doorway forcing a bottleneck. Corvo headed for the center of the fray, ducking as a lit whiskey bottle flew past him and exploded mere feet away.

          He put his sword through the first whaler he could reach, taking careful aim at another who stood on the only intact rooftop. He fired and the man fell, landing squarely in the burning whale oil. Holstering his pistol, Corvo dodged through the crowd, slicing at every whaler's uniform he saw. They staggered as he ran by, bleeding from shallow gashes just painful enough to distract them from the fight. The gang noticed his progress and began pelting the injured whalers with whiskey bottles. Flames burst to life in Corvo's wake.

          Close to the dividing fire, a whaler saw him coming and turned to meet him. Corvo, unable to stop his momentum, could only watch as a knife rushed toward his left shoulder. He let out a roar, raising his sword to strike his attacker. He needn't have bothered. A meat cleaver slammed into the whaler's temple, spraying blood over Corvo's mask. The whaler fell, twitching, to reveal Slackjaw's furious face.

          "Where the fuck have you _been?"_ he snarled at Corvo, retrieving his cleaver and moving in close. Corvo saw the intent in Slackjaw's eyes and stepped to one side as Slackjaw raised his pistol and fired. Corvo watched the unfortunate target fall, then glanced down at the space just beneath his own collarbone. The assassin's knife had pierced his skin, but not badly. He hoped fervently it was not coated in the poison Sokolov had mentioned.

          Slackjaw was busy shooting every whaler who stood still long enough, "Corvo, we gotta move!"

          The whalers were carving through the gang, pushing the fight back. Corvo grasped for Slackjaw's arm, which the other man gave him without looking. They moved as one, leaping through the fire and running toward the burning face of the distillery. They backed into the stone wall of the front porch. Corvo raised his sword to cover them as best he could. The roar of the flames drowned out everything but screaming and gunfire.

          "We have to hold here!" Slackjaw shouted into his ear, "They're tryin' to blow the stock!"

          Corvo tried to imagine the kind of blaze two hundred barrels of whiskey and a pressurized still could ignite. That would certainly scorch a sizeable hole in the landscape. Had Daud lost his mind? There was no way Martin would fail to notice a massive firestorm just four blocks from his office. This would ensure war between Daud and the Abbey. Or, Corvo thought belatedly, recalling the abandoned streets, had Daud already attacked the Overseers?

 _That_ _**would** _ _be interesting._

          Corvo swore to himself. Another bottle exploded in the crowd and several men fell, screaming, as they burned alive. Slackjaw's gang was pathetically outnumbered. Corvo glanced at Slackjaw and saw, illuminated by the bright, flickering light, a desperation he recognized all too well. It was the face of a man about to lose everything.

          Two whalers rushed them from the left, just inside the wall of flame. Slackjaw moved rapidly, stepping in front of Corvo and raising his pistol to pick them off one at a time. Corvo looked around, searching the yard for any hint of an advantage.

          “We need a plan,” Slackjaw said unnecessarily, as he noticed a whaler climbing atop the crumbling archway. He fired and, after a split-second delay, the distant figure fell. Corvo's eyes traced a path from the falling whaler to the nearby storage building and its smoldering roof.

          “I have an idea,” Corvo said, grabbing Slackjaw's shoulder, “You'll like it.”

          “All ears,” Slackjaw shouted in reply, then followed Corvo's gaze to the burning warehouse.

          “You'll need to get your men to the distillery.”

          “Aye?”

          Corvo opened his mouth to explain, but found they had more pressing issues. A cluster of assassins charged through the crowd, swords raised. They were clearly intent on breaking through the fire and storming the front of the distillery.

          “Alright,” Slackjaw said roughly, “Go.”

          “But-”

          “ _Go,_ Corvo!” Slackjaw pushed him with one hand. Corvo took a step back, glancing from Slackjaw's wild eyes to the oncoming whalers. He whirled, taking a running leap for the stone porch and heaving himself up. Heat from the blazing wall of the distillery hit him in a wave. Eyes watering, he stumbled to his feet and ran for the southern wall, where the warehouse stretched along the side of the yard.

          A second-story window beckoned, relatively free of smoke. Corvo coughed and turned, looking back toward the distillery door.

          The whalers had almost made it to the wall of fire. Slackjaw leveled his pistol at the foremost whaler and fired. The man staggered, grasping at his chest, and Slackjaw let out an animal roar as the assassins breached the flames. One of them ran at him, and Slackjaw drove his cleaver into the man's face, shattering the glass of his mask.

          "Come at me, you bastards!" Slackjaw screamed, wrenching the blade free and charging forward. He began to laugh as he slashed his way through the whalers, disappearing from sight as he drew close to the burning oil.

          Corvo turned his attention back to the task at hand. He blinked up to the open window and slipped inside the warehouse. He was grateful for his mask, breathing through the fabric. The air was thick with smoke, and the timbers above shed hot ash through the rafters.

          High above him, standing on a metal support structure, was the remains of a transport system meant to bring barrels from the distillery to the warehouse. Outside, the tracks and struts had long since been demolished. Inside, however, they ran right up to the bricked-over window in the third floor wall. A wide metal cart rested against the recently laid brick, still locked onto its tracks.

          Corvo blinked to the third floor, little more than a rectangular platform beside the tracks. The old control panel was completely gutted. Taking this in stride, Corvo turned in a circle and found an old cabinet against the far wall. He ran to it, coughing as his lungs took in a breath of smoke. He threw the doors open and found exactly what he was looking for. Six whale oil tanks, still full and neatly stacked.

          He carried them all to the other end of the platform, depositing each one into the cart. Then, carefully, he stepped onto the tracks behind it. He gave the thing a tentative pull, trying to budge it away from the wall. It shifted, but only slightly.

          Fire began to take the third floor, having devoured the entire roof. Corvo noted the increasing number of falling embers. He set his teeth and pulled hard on the cart. It rocked back with a creak. With another heave, Corvo took a sliding step backward on the smooth tracks.

          The cart came with him, albeit stubbornly. The entire thing clattered violently as Corvo dragged it uphill. He fought to maintain his footing, arms shaking with effort as the cart grew heavier and heavier. After a few minutes' work, he had made it halfway up the incline, a good enough distance from the brick wall. Clumps of burning wood were beginning to fall around him.

          Coughing, Corvo took a moment to prepare himself.

 _You do fascinate me,_ the Outsider said, only mildly condescending.

          Corvo released the cart and turned his marked hand, pulling time to a near stop. He felt a moment's panic as the Void threatened to slip away from his exhausted mind, but the spell held. He lifted a tank of whale oil and blinked to the yardside wall. Setting the oil down against the bricks, he pulled out his pistol and fired a shot which suspended itself barely an inch from the cannister.

          Blinking back to the track, he placed both hands on the cart and waited for time to resume.

          Color rushed back into the world, and the tank exploded. Bricks flew out from the wall, and the building rattled. Corvo nearly lost his balance as the entire structure shuddered. A huge section of timber fell from the roof, crashing into the third floor platform and taking half of it down. Corvo hoped that Slackjaw knew a signal when he saw one. With a groan of relief, he let go of the cart.

          The cart rolled, slowly at first, then with increasing speed until it reached the end of the track. It sailed out of the new opening in the wall, appearing suspended for a moment in midair before it fell mightily to the earth.

          The blast was staggering. The ground shook, as did the warehouse. Corvo ducked as wide pieces of the burning roof came down, while the noise of the explosion thundered through the air. The echo reached Corvo in waves as the warehouse began to fall apart. He blinked to the second floor and ran to the window, leaping out as the roof collapsed behind him. He made a sloppy landing on the distillery porch, falling hard on his already bleeding shoulder. He rolled onto his back and looked out at the yard.

          The yard was now a crater. A smoking, blood-filled crater. The blast had killed a good number of whalers, but some remained, struggling to their feet in confusion. The Bottle Street Boys were mostly gathered in front of the distillery. Corvo scanned their backs, looking for Slackjaw. The boys seemed to be doing the same, turning frantically in place.

          The smoke in the yard began to settle, revealing a fight still raging around the periphery of the blast area. Gunfire resumed, as did the ringing of blades. There was a mangled scream from the other end of the compound, and Corvo searched rapidly for the source. His heartbeat slammed to a halt when he found it.

          Slackjaw was pinned to the ground, arms splayed, the boot of a whaler pressing down on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, back to regular-length updates next chapter.  
> Happy Halloween, Month of Void, etc.  
> 


	8. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sexual tension ruins everything.

  

           Slackjaw was trying to grasp his pistol where it had fallen in the mud, just out of reach. The whaler standing over him put a sword to his throat, and Slackjaw turned his head.

          Corvo's mind seared white with rage. He shoved himself up, injured shoulder forgotten. He raised his marked hand and the mark burned, pain flaring up Corvo's arm until the frozen hush of the Void filled his ears. The mark's black outline seemed to darken as a thin trail of smoke seeped from the curved lines. Corvo, acting on instinct, focused on the assassin and _pulled._

          The effect was instant and horrific. The man went flying heavenward, shrieking as he went, until he was dangling midair some fifty feet from the ground. Corvo glanced from his closed fist to the struggling whaler, then flicked his wrist. The whaler careened headfirst into the outer wall of a factory building, hitting the bricks with a sickening crunch. His body fell to earth as Corvo relaxed his hand.

          Corvo was aware of something leaving him, a vague weight lifting from his shoulders. He did not have time to dwell, however. He leapt from the porch and ran towards Slackjaw, dodging dead bodies and limbs. His feet sank into the ground, blood seeping over his boots. The whalers retreated in sheer terror. Some of the Bottle Street Boys followed him. They formed a human wall, covering Corvo as he knelt in the mud beside their fallen boss.

          "What--" Slackjaw's eyes were wide, darting over Corvo's mask, "What—"

          Corvo let out a deep breath, relieved to see the man awake and responsive. He was unsure what the Bottle Street Gang would do if their boss had been killed, but he could guess it involved handing Corvo over to Daud without a fight. As it was, the gang was making a vengeful move through the center of the remaining whalers, pushing them back through the wide pool of red murk.

          Slackjaw struggled to sit up. Corvo steadied him with a hand as he pushed himself onto one elbow, his breathing coming more as a series of groans.

          “I'm alright,” Slackjaw gasped.

          He was not. Corvo had only to glance over Slackjaw to see that he was bleeding fast from a deep cut just beneath his rib cage. He was covered in dirt, and his clothing was torn. It was hard to tell how serious the wound really was.

          Corvo looked vainly for anything that would suffice as a binding. The fighting around them kicked mud into the air, and Corvo's view was obscured by the battle as the remaining whalers made a desperate push. The gang held them, gunfire now a uniform barrage. Peering through legs and around corpses, Corvo's eyes lighted on a fallen bottle of whiskey, unbroken and still containing a length of soaked fabric someone had failed to light. He fumbled for Slackjaw's hand.

          "Hold this," he said, bringing Slackjaw's palm to his bleeding side and pressing it there, "Don't move."

          There was a chorus of shouting from the boys behind them, some of it joyful. Corvo lunged for the whiskey bottle and retrieved it easily enough, stealing a glance across the yard. Figures fled through the street entrance. The whalers were retreating, leaping to safety and disappearing over the rooftops. The Bottle Street Boys gave chase, shouting obscenities as they went. Corvo scrambled back to Slackjaw's side, tilting the whiskey bottle and retrieving the soaked cloth inside. He wrung it out as best he could.

          Slackjaw was watching him sharply, chest heaving, "Don't you-- fucking dare."

          Corvo didn't give him a choice, instead prying Slackjaw's fingers loose and steadying him with one hand to the man's chest. Slackjaw drew in a rattling breath, and Corvo pressed the cloth against the open wound. Slackjaw's hand shot out and grasped Corvo's shoulder, and after a moment he let out a halting scream. His fingers dug in so fiercely that Corvo feared for his collarbone.

          "Up," Slackjaw muttered groggily, "help me up."

          Corvo did so, supporting Slackjaw's arms as he shifted. Corvo got to his feet first, pulling Slackjaw up by one arm and steadying him as he righted himself. Once upright, Slackjaw wrapped his hand around the cloth at his side. Corvo released him cautiously. There was a nearby gurgle, and they followed the sound to see a whaler let out a dying groan at Corvo's feet. Slackjaw had the presence of mind to spit on the corpse.

          Corvo glanced around the complex, watching the gang chase out the rest of the whalers. From the look of it, the fight had moved out into the streets.

          He turned to Slackjaw, "You alright?"

          Slackjaw gave a strained, bitter laugh, "Just sunny."

          There was a mighty rumble from the southern wall, and they both looked in time to see the warehouse collapse in on itself, crashing down in a rush of smoke and brick dust.

          Slackjaw's laughter was honest this time, and Corvo found he could not keep a slight smile from his face. They watched for a moment as the wreckage settled. Slackjaw laid a blood-stained hand on Corvo's arm.

          “Come on,” he rasped, “I need a drink.”

 

          Once they'd put out the fires and taken stock of the damage, Slackjaw set his men to cleaning and guard duty. The boys had captured two whalers, one of whom bled to death. The remaining prisoner was placed in the holding cell beside the distillery, stripped of his uniform and tied at the wrists and ankles. Slackjaw hesitated outside the cell with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

          “Deal with him later,” Corvo said under his breath, and Slackjaw nodded.

          The Bottle Street Boys had their work cut out for them, cleaning up the gaping hole in the yard and the smoking rubble of the warehouse. Already, they'd made piles of corpses and severed limbs. Several dumpsters at the end of the yard served as makeshift furnaces. The bodies of dead gang members were laid respectfully to one side, with a man standing guard to watch for rats. They would be buried, once the wounded were treated.

          The distillery was not as badly damaged as the yard. The front face of the building had finally stopped burning, leaving the bricks charred but standing. The inside of the place remained untouched. Leaning against the open front door, Slackjaw took a swig of whiskey from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

          “Look at this mess,” his voice was even rougher than usual, his throat raw. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. His right hand was still wrapped tightly to his left side, where the now-crimson cloth rested over the tatters of his shirt. He held the bottle out and Corvo accepted it, taking up a place beside him.

          “This isn't like Daud,” Corvo said, unfastening his mask and pushing it back to rest on his forehead. He took a drink.

          “I don't give a rat's ass what it's like,” Slackjaw snapped, “I want him spittin' blood.”

          Corvo nodded his agreement, “It's possible he went after Martin, too.”

          Slackjaw's eyes searched the yard as he considered this, “Good. Let the Overseers keep him busy.”

          He waved his hand and one of the older gang members hurried over. The man was caked in sweat and soot, his sleeves dark with blood. Slackjaw glanced at him, then resumed his study of the wreckage.

          “Send a man to Treaver's, tell our boys in the Hatters to come home. We need 'em here. And somebody,” he raised his voice, “is gonna tell me how the _fuck_ they slipped our patrols!”

          “Yes, boss,” the man at Slackjaw's side turned to leave.

          “Wait,” Corvo said, and the man paused with an apprehensive wince, “I brought Anton Sokolov to the edge of the district. He's on the beach under Clavering.”

          Slackjaw gave a jerk of his head, indicating he wanted the matter taken care of. The tired messenger turned swiftly and made his way back across the yard, calling a few names as he went. The gang gathered obediently and discussed their assignments, with only a few concerned glances thrown in Slackjaw's direction.

          A soft rain began to fall from the scattered clouds, patches of drizzle interrupted by the morning sun.

          The boss sighed, “Let's go.”

          “Go?” Corvo echoed.

          “The boys'll clean up,” Slackjaw looked to Corvo with a weary expression, “and Daud ain't makin' another move just yet. You and me... we're gonna have a talk.”

          Corvo found himself fixed under a scrutinizing glare, so he moved away from the wall and followed Slackjaw into the distillery. They wound their way down to the lower level, where the stills hummed faithfully. Slackjaw moved stiffly, trying and failing to disguise the occasional grunt of pain. He stopped beside a closed bulkhead.

          “Old sewer tunnel,” he said, “I got a nice quiet spot we can hide out.”

          Corvo knelt to pull the door open. Slackjaw eased past him and descended the short stair into the relative darkness. Corvo trudged after him, pulling the door closed on the empty distillery.

 

* * *

 

          They emerged from the underground tunnels about a block from the Golden Cat. They were in what had once been a fashionable artists' neighborhood. The sun glittered on the cobblestones, the streets still wet from the sudden rain. The shells of fancy apartments towered overhead, their white balconies cracked and disused.

          Slackjaw led the way to a red brick townhouse. Corvo was more than a little mystified when Slackjaw produced a key and unlocked the front door. He had always assumed Slackjaw to be a man of simple needs and simpler tastes, presumably making his home somewhere closer to Bottle Street. As they dragged their feet into a cozy, if cluttered, entryway, Corvo had trouble reconciling the room before him with the blood-soaked man at his elbow.

          Slackjaw caught sight of Corvo's face and gave a fleeting smirk, “You think I lived at the distillery?”

          Corvo took in the little hall, with its wood floors, beaten furniture and flickering light. Slackjaw shuffled past him and began to climb the stairs. Corvo followed him, too tired to bother looking around.

          On the next floor, Slackjaw pushed open a door to a wide bedroom which faced the street. Sunlight poured through the window, falling across a bed made up in crumpled grey plaids. A large sea chest stood at the foot of the bed.

          “Wait here,” Slackjaw gestured vaguely at the room, then slipped back into the hall and made his way to the farthest door.

          Corvo glanced around the bedroom, grateful for the moment's isolation. The bed and chest took up a decent amount of space. There was an armchair in a corner, with a table and several bottles of whiskey. A mostly intact set of glasses rested atop a short bookshelf, which held a strange variety of trinkets: bits of driftwood, shining plates, a broken officer's sword. Trophies, Corvo realized.

          At the other end of the room hung a wanted poster bearing Black Sally's likeness, alongside two of Slackjaw's own posters and countless smaller notices. The most recent poster promised a significantly increased reward. There was a distant clatter of water rushing through old pipes.

          It was all so disarmingly domestic. Slackjaw was a rough man, and Corvo had seen him take a life without so much as blinking. And yet, something in the sentimentality of the trophies rang true.

          There were sounds of movement from the hall, and Corvo turned a little too quickly. He winced as his shoulder gave a sharp pang in protest. Slackjaw arrived in the doorway in time to see Corvo's face contort in pain.

          "You hurt bad?" Slackjaw asked him bluntly, hands clean and holding a basin full of steaming, soapy water. He had washed his face, and his nose was still pink from being scrubbed.

          "No," Corvo said, moving aside so Slackjaw could set the basin down atop the trunk.

          "Good," Slackjaw replied, and before Corvo could say another word, unbuttoned his bloody shirt and peeled it off.

          He had seen Slackjaw in various states of undress before. Working to fix the still on a warm day, or in the process of getting drunk, Slackjaw had been known to throw his shirts wherever he pleased. But now Slackjaw was not putting on a show, nor was he hard at work. He was hurt, overtired, and stripped of his usual self-aware cockiness.

          His tattooed skin, hard and scarred, was tinted red with blood through his soaked shirt. The hair on his chest was matted down with sweat, and his lean muscles were tight, pulling his body into a defensive sort of curl. Slackjaw lifted a sponge from the basin and wrung it out before drawing it along his arms in steady, careful motions. Corvo watched the muscles beneath his chest flex and relax.

          The dark gash just below Slackjaw's ribs looked shallow. It was not as bad as Corvo had feared, but was almost certainly painful. It was still bleeding a little, apparently reopened in the last few minutes. Corvo frowned at it. Slackjaw paused with the sponge hovering midair, watching him, and Corvo glanced away.

          “You picked a fine time to disappear,” Slackjaw huffed, and Corvo caught the barely concealed barb in those words. He stared at the wall, listening to the drip of water into the basin.

          “I had no idea Daud was planning this,” he said steadily.

          “You coulda killed that son of a bitch months ago. I send you to deal with him and this happens.”

          Corvo awarded Slackjaw a harsh glare, despite knowing the accusation was justified. It _had_ been his job to ensure Daud left them alone. He had indeed allowed this to happen, and now some two dozen of Slackjaw's people were dead. Corvo softened his expression with some effort.

          “I misjudged him,” Corvo admitted.

          “Outsider's eyes, Corvo,” Slackjaw let out a terse sigh of frustration, “anyone else said that to me, an' I'd cut their thro--”

          He broke off in a muffled cry, a sound he barely covered by clenching his teeth. He was frozen with the sponge held just beneath the bleeding cut in his side. His shoulders were tensed, and he released a measured breath through his nose as he made an effort to stand up straight. As Corvo watched, a thick drip of blood made fast progress from the gash, pooling in the lines of Slackjaw's hip and staining the waist of his trousers.

          Corvo moved forward, prying the sponge from Slackjaw's hand and setting it down on the trunk. He pulled a light blanket from the end of the bed and pressed the clean fabric against Slackjaw's side. His shoulder began throbbing again, but he ignored it, favoring his right hand as he steadied his grip.

          "It's not too deep," Corvo said automatically.

          "I know," Slackjaw breathed roughly.

          Corvo glanced up into the other man's eyes, seeing himself reflected in their hazel stare. They watched each other for a moment, until Corvo found himself glaring at the garish bed. A confused tangle of mutual anger surfaced between them, and it was Slackjaw who finally broke the silence.

          "You better stay away from the distillery. Lay low."

          A flare of indignation woke Corvo's pride, and he bit back a stinging reply. He glanced at his own hand, where it pressed firmly into Slackjaw's side, and at Slackjaw's hand where it hung limply by his hip. His eyes traced the outline of Slackjaw's rough fingers, swollen knuckles and scraped palm.

          "Listen," Slackjaw said, a little firmer this time, "I don't make offers like this. I pay a man, I expect him to die for me. But I don't pay you, and you ain't like the others. I want you out."

          "Is that what you want," Corvo said flatly, "you might have said so a few months ago."

          “Don't give me that shit. You been nothin' but trouble for me. Least you could do is clear out when I tell you.”

          “I'm not clearing out of anywhere. Not with Daud breathing down our necks.”

          Slackjaw made an infuriated noise,"You wanna fall on your blade, that's your business, but I got people to be takin' care of. I ain't lookin' after you again."

          Corvo took a slow breath, anger causing his hand to twitch against Slackjaw's side, “I'm not asking you to.”

          "You're gonna leave Dunwall," Slackjaw continued as if he hadn't heard him, "I don't give a damn where you go. Karnaca, maybe. You're gonna get on the first ship that--"

          “Don't you patronize me,” Corvo hissed, leaning forward, "the only way I leave this city is as a corpse, do you understand me? I have as much right to Daud's life as you do. You don't tell me to leave.”

          Slackjaw's stare was absolutely livid. His hazel eyes caught the midday light, and Corvo could see their green edges take on a bright sheen. Slackjaw reached out and gripped Corvo's shoulder in a decidedly threatening way. Corvo covered his reaction as pain shot down his arm.

          "You fucking _idiot_ ," Slackjaw leaned so close that Corvo could feel the man's breath on his face, "There ain't no way we survive this. You think Daud's the end of it? He don't stand a chance against the Overseers. Martin takes one look at the distillery, he'll send the entire Abbey. Wipe us all out at once, Bottle Street, the Whalers, the Hatters, the Eels, _everyone._ Maybe you make it out alive. But then it's only a matter of time 'til Martin sniffs you out. You end up back in Coldridge. They take your head off. Then who's gonna put this city right, huh?"

          Slackjaw let out a noise between a growl and a sigh, "I'm lookin' to die, Corvo. You got cause to keep breathin'."

          Silence fell between them. Corvo tried to find even a single word, but none came to him. He stared at Slackjaw, and it was as though he'd never seen the man before. This was certainly the most foresight he'd ever heard from him. A sudden stab of pain wracked Corvo's shoulder and he was unable to stop himself from letting out a weak grunt as his arm jerked violently.

          Slackjaw released him with a start. He pulled his hand back and looked at his own fingers, finding them coated in Corvo's blood.

          "What-- what did--?" Slackjaw muttered to himself, taking Corvo's arm in his hand and looking for the source of the bleeding. He lifted the collar of Corvo's coat, uncovering the hole a whaler's knife had punched just beneath his collarbone. Corvo glanced down, and it became instantly obvious that he was hurt worse than he'd realized.

          "By the Void. You said it wasn' bad. You-- _you stupid-- you son of a--!"_

          Corvo had never heard Slackjaw, of all people, stammer for words. A genuine smile tilted his lips, hindered slightly by the tearing sensation in his shoulder. His grip on Slackjaw's side slipped a little, and Slackjaw caught his hand instinctively before freezing, apparently realizing what he'd just done. His fingers rested over Corvo's, warm and calloused.

          Slackjaw gave Corvo a defensive, hostile look. He was wild like this, Corvo thought, a ghost of the man he might have been outside the shroud of Dunwall. Corvo could see now, in close detail, the awful wrath that kept the Bottle Street Gang loyal. His eyes were blazing fury, his mouth a grim slash and his beard unkempt. His hair waved back from his face, dampened by sweat. There was nothing beautiful or soft about him. He was fire consuming a ship on the sea.

          Corvo opened his mouth to make some kind of excuse for his silence. He did not have time to decide. Slackjaw muttered a coarse, "Fuck it," and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him forward. Corvo found himself pressed against Slackjaw's face, with dry lips against his own and a strong hand twisting into his hair. Corvo, lips parted, tasted blood that was neither of theirs, and a sweet burn like alcohol on his tongue. He could feel Slackjaw's heat leaning close, the scratch of his beard and the bruising pressure of his fingernails. Corvo made a muted sound of surprise as his face flushed. He was shocked enough to stagger on his feet, but Slackjaw steadied him, his grip on Corvo's hand sliding up his wrist to encircle his arm.

          Held in place, Corvo was caught between the urge to free himself and a crawling, needy feeling sharpened by months of solitude. The warmth of another body, the scrape of hands on skin... it had been a long while since Corvo had allowed himself the luxury. A series of conflicting desires flitted through his head, touch or attack, demand or destroy. Before he could act, the rough kiss broke off and Slackjaw pulled abruptly back, snarling.

          "Don't you _ever_ fuckin' do this to me again,” there was a possessive glint to his eyes, “That's twice now you show up bleedin' all over the place, not sayin' a word. Don't--"

          He stopped himself and released Corvo, hands hovering self-consciously. He looked both furious and embarrassed. A pause stretched, and Corvo grew painfully aware that he ought to be reacting in one way or another, but his mind offered only a formless confusion.

          Slackjaw looked away suddenly and Corvo realized what his expression must have been. Slackjaw extracted the blanket from Corvo's grasp, eyes turning cold as he freed himself and took a sweeping step back.

          “I'll find us some cloth,” he muttered, balling the blanket up against his ribs, “Clean yourself up.”

          Corvo nodded, but Slackjaw had already turned, moving stiffly into the hall. Corvo considered the basin and sponge, then bypassed them to sit heavily down on the edge of the bed. Out in the hall, a door closed loudly.

          Corvo brought his good hand to his lips, dragging it down his chin in total exasperation. He tried to come up with a plan, or at least something he could say to smooth things over. Nothing he rehearsed in his head sounded even vaguely pacifying.

          He was unsure which part of the day had been the worst disaster. Was it the gore-filled gouge in the distillery grounds? Slackjaw making good on a threat Corvo had always assumed was a joke? Or perhaps, he reflected as he stared at the open door, it was the thawing realization that he might have just alienated the only ally he had left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this until I had a good buffer going, but Harvey Smith said [this](https://twitter.com/Harvey1966/status/664179616261627904) today, so I figured it was a perfect time to update!  
> (If you're still reading, please leave a comment every now and then! I love hearing from you all)


	9. Sounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one's proudest moment.  
> Huge TRIGGER WARNING for those of you with a fear of drowning.

 

_He could hear her._

_He was so sure he could hear her voice, fading somewhere far in the distance. He tried to look for her, but he could see only a white haze. The fog, freezing and wet, wrapped around him like a burial shroud and weighed him down. He struggled to lift his arm, and his hand disappeared in the mist. As he drew breath, the fog crawled down his throat and into his lungs, and the thorny cold settled within his chest._

_But he could **hear her.**_

_Her voice was far away, but he knew its cadences by heart. She was calling for someone-- for him. He waved his hands at the fog, willing it to dissipate. The mists only swirled and stung at his eyes. He stumbled forward, unseeing, and heard the click of marble beneath his feet._

_For what seemed like hours he wandered blindly, hands reaching for purchase they never found. The fog did not leave him once, but all the while her voice grew clearer. His ragged breathing was costly, each inhale driving the icy Void deeper into his veins. He could barely feel his hands, but he was close to her now. The echoes sounded more and more like his name._

_His lungs began to ache as the cold turned them stiff. He coughed, and a hundred needle points tore through his chest._

“ _Corvo,” she called to him, and he tried to run. His feet refused to cooperate, instead trudging leadenly. The fog curled around his ankles. The clouds were darker now, a sickly grey and blackening along the ground. The tendrils of smoke around his legs felt almost solid._

“ _Corvo, turn back!” she called, and her voice cracked with fear, “Turn back!”_

_He paused, just for a moment, and let out a soft rush of air._

“ _Jessamine?”_

_In the breath it took to say her name, the smoke at his feet turned thick and black, and washed over him with a sudden cold so biting that he gasped in shock. He staggered as a sharp pull at his ankles threatened to knock him over. Dark water rushed around him, a strong undertow dragging him down and catching his feet beneath heavy sand. He tried to free himself, but the water was rising rapidly and the flow of sand made it impossible to move._

“ _Corvo?” called a different voice._

_He let out a cry as the water reached his knees, “Emily! Where are you?”_

“ _Corvo?” she was close, so close he thought he could reach out and find her standing just beside him, “Corvo, I can't see you!”_

“ _I'm here,” he fought to lift his legs, but they were held fast. The water began to break in small waves at his waist, “I'm here, I can hear you!”_

“ _It's so dark, Corvo, I can't see anything!” she sounded panicked, close to tears. He flailed his hands, not comprehending. She should be here, he thought. Her voice was right there. Why could he not find her?_

“ _I'm coming,” he promised, and his lungs burned like they would burst. His head began to ache. He could not catch his breath, and he felt dizzy and unsteady. The current pulled urgently, climbing water crashing against his chest._

“ _Corvo!” Emily shouted for him, and her voice was distorted, dissonant, “Corvo!”_

_As she repeated his name, the sound lost its familiar edges, rising and falling in pitch until it was unrecognizable. He called for her, but she was still shouting, drawing out his name over and over until it was no longer his name. It was a deep, grinding sound he could feel in his bones. The water washed over his shoulders as Emily's voice twisted into an inhuman moan. Her call became a whalesong, mournful and tortured. Corvo knew this voice. He had heard it in Sokolov's laboratory. An eternal, dying scream._

“ _Well,” thundered a soft, mocking tone, “aren't you the adventurer.”_

_The fog parted before Corvo, and the Outsider appeared to bleed into existence just above the water, his shape forming like a drop of ink on a clean page. He cocked his head, eyes glittering the same dark hue as the rising tide._

“ _I wonder, Corvo,” his voice rang in harmony with the whalesong, “What is it you think you'll find? There is nothing here for you to save, nothing here you can fight.”_

“ _I heard them--” Corvo tossed his head back, water lapping at his throat, the sea-spray flicking salt onto his tongue, “I heard them!”_

_The Outsider crossed his arms, expression tinted with amusement and, for the briefest moment, sympathy._

“ _Did you? How interesting.”_

_Corvo tried to respond but black water poured into his mouth. He choked on it, sputtering as a wave sent water down his throat. His mind went blank with fear, as his lungs tried desperately to expel the brackish sea. His feet were still anchored in sand, and the tide enveloped him completely. He looked upward, where the surface shone in pale light. His chest felt impossibly tight. His vision blurred. He closed his eyes against the brine, allowing his weary lungs to breathe in. Water poured through him. He ceased all struggling, and swayed in the current as he was swallowed by the sea._

 

He jerked awake, chest heaving, eyes roving wildly over the water-stained ceiling. The lamp above flickered. He took in the white walls and soft creaks of the room around him, memory trading dreams for reality. Distant sounds of morning in the city were hushed but faithful.

Corvo was sprawled sideways across Slackjaw's bed, rough blankets beneath him balled in his fists. He pushed himself up and found the sun still streaming weakly through the windows. He could not remember having fallen asleep. He rubbed his face, raking fingers over unchecked stubble. Two bad dreams in one day. The specifics of the nightmare were already sliding away from him, but he certainly remembered drowning. He took a few slow breaths to reassure his thudding heart that he was still safe on land.

Judging by the sounds from the hall, Slackjaw was elsewhere in the apartment. There was a noise like a drawer being slammed. Corvo could guess this would be an unpleasant day.

They spent the rest of the morning avoiding each other. Their longest interaction consisted of Slackjaw leaning into the bedroom to tell Corvo to run a bath, and that he smelled like shit. Corvo spent a good half hour cleaning himself off, trying not to splash water into the hole in his shoulder. The wound was mostly congealed, now, and he wrapped it in cloth to form a makeshift binding. He wondered how Slackjaw was faring.

He would have to wait to find out. When he emerged from the bath, he discovered a pile of clean clothes waiting for him. He stepped into the pants. The dark flannel shirt was too tight for his shoulder, so he left it partially unbuttoned. A quick search of the hall and the entryway revealed that the house was empty. Slackjaw had gone out.

Corvo drained the bath and ran extra water to clean his coat. The thing was in shreds by now, and patched at every hem, but he had never once considered parting with it. He spent a long moment staring at it, running a finger along its stained gold trim, before pushing it under the tap. He would have to ask Slackjaw how he'd managed to divert clean water to his apartment. Then again, Corvo reminded himself, it was just as likely he'd never get the chance for another civil conversation with the man. Especially if Slackjaw really intended to force him out of Dunwall.

Corvo suppressed a surge of frustration. He had been wrong, he knew, to stand there in silence while Slackjaw floundered. He had trouble imagining how else he might have handled it. He had always thought of Slackjaw's constant heckling as another one of his intimidation tactics. Surely Slackjaw knew him better than to throw something like this at him. They were not close, by any means, but they were both perceptive enough. Slackjaw had only to watch Corvo's face change whenever Jessamine's name was mentioned. How could he possibly think--

Except he hadn't been thinking, Corvo realized. Not until he'd pulled away. Corvo let his coat slip into the water and leaned against the edge of the tub. He tapped the warm metal with a thumb. This was no time for Slackjaw to turn impulsive. The revelation wore at his already fraying patience.

His head buzzed and hummed and he said, "No," under his breath.

_Enjoying yourself, Corvo? I know I am._

"Please leave," Corvo muttered.

_A man made of nothing but violence and fear, with a list of corpses to rival even yours. Turns out he's just a man, after all. But you have more important concerns._

Corvo caught the caustic tone in the Outsider's voice. He reached into the water and began scrubbing his coat violently. He turned over the morning's events as the Outsider's silent presence gave him a headache.

With his coat clean and hanging, Corvo made his way to the front hall. He pulled the door open, checking the street for activity. The area was completely deserted. The sun was high overhead, untouched by clouds for once. Corvo reached for his mask, hanging from his belt, then thought better of it. It was more for show these days, anyway. Everyone of consequence in Dunwall already knew his face.

He walked toward the sewer gate, starkly aware of his boots tapping against stone. Despite faraway sounds of activity from the shore, the quiet in this district was unnerving. Corvo began to wonder if he'd been right about Daud attacking the Overseers. He reached the mouth of a dark alley and pulled on a rusted gate. It was unlocked. He ducked down a flight of stairs into the sewer tunnel, the gate creaking shut behind him.

The empty sewer was eerily hushed, echoes of dripping water the only sound in the dark. Corvo waited for his eyes to adjust. Slackjaw had once mentioned that these tunnels had never been used for sewage. They were badly built, their brick deemed unsafe, and were thus walled off from the rest of the system. The Bottle Street Gang had been using them to smuggle whiskey for years. Corvo, less experienced, tried to retrace the steps he'd taken a few hours prior. His shoulder hurt, but he was determined to reach the distillery. If he could speak to Slackjaw, he had a chance of preventing the man from shipping him off to the ends of the earth.

A distant noise made him pause, a gentle tapping against wet brick. The sound solidified into the echo of footsteps as they drew closer. Corvo flexed his marked hand and was treated to a jolt of pain tearing down his arm. He held his breath to avoid making a sound.

Thankfully, it was one of the Bottle Street Boys whose familiar shape rounded the nearest corner and stopped, taking in Corvo and his hunched shoulder.

“You feelin' alright?” the young man, who Corvo thought might be called Bash, asked in a carefully even voice, “Boss said you was hurt.”

“I'm fine.”

“Uh, right,” Bash took an awkward step closer, voice repeating itself in the wide tunnel. His stance was guarded and twitchy. Corvo could guess the reason. No doubt Slackjaw was in one of his more homicidal moods.

“Did Slackjaw send you?”

“No,” Bash said quickly, then winced at his own eagerness, “No, uh, he's not... he's in a bad sorta state. Throwing things and shouting. Locked himself in the office, told us nobody could go in there 'less something _else_ was on fire.”

Corvo accepted this news with flat sigh.

“But it's Sokolov. He's makin' a scene, says he wants to talk to you. Says it's urgent.”

 

* * *

 

They found Sokolov in the distillery's front office, tending to the wounded. Corvo was surprised to see the physician working, and wondered briefly if the gang had threatened him with violence. Sokolov seemed calm and focused, however, and barely glanced at Corvo where he hovered in the doorway.

The brightly lit room smelled of blood and vomit. About fifteen men were seated or lying on the ground, some of them unconscious. Parts of the floor were slick with blood. Sokolov was kneeling beside a man whose arm looked shattered, observing the damage with a sober expression.

“I'm sorry, young man,” Sokolov said gruffly, “it's just not salvageable.”

The man, one of Slackjaw's more imposing leg-breakers, was mumbling tearfully, words unintelligible through a low whine. His arm seeped blood down the front of his shirt, slowly staining a tourniquet at his elbow. A white sliver of bone was visible where it pierced the swollen skin.

“You can't afford to wait,” Sokolov's voice was firm, “if we don't take the arm now, you'll die of infection. I can guarantee that.”

His patient closed his eyes and nodded, beginning to weep in earnest. Sokolov laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder before standing unsteadily. He nodded to two of the other boys, and they helped their crying friend to his feet. Corvo moved aside as they headed for the metal stairwell leading to the catwalk.

“I have a makeshift surgery in the rear hallway,” Sokolov said by way of greeting, stepping close to Corvo, “Where have you been, by the way?”

Corvo rubbed the back of his neck, “Dealing with something.”

“This is where you've been living, I take it?”

“Yes,” Corvo admitted, glancing over the room full of injured men. They were all watching him, some with suspicion and some with respect. He wondered how many of them knew that Slackjaw was angry with him.

“I figured as much when they showed up at the shore,” Sokolov sighed, “seems we've both been keeping questionable company.”

“Daud did this,” Corvo awarded Sokolov a dark glare.

“Yes, I know,” the Tyvian looked at the surrounding carnage, furrowing his brow, “isn't it... odd?”

“Odd?”

After a moment's silence, Sokolov gave a brief shake of his head, “No, never mind. My imagination, I suppose.”

“What is it?”

Sokolov rubbed his cheek with the back of his wrist, trying to avoid smearing blood onto his face,“I haven't found a trace of my poisons anywhere on these men. Of course, it's possible Daud is saving them for some other purpose.”

Corvo considered this, frowning. A nagging sense of warning struggled in the back of his mind, a half-formed idea that Daud might be up to something far worse than a straightforward attack on the distillery. He could not fathom what, exactly.

“More likely,” Sokolov ventured, “he's keeping my work close in case he's attacked in Rudshore.”

Corvo nodded, although they both knew the explanation was thin at best. Without any further information, however, Corvo had to settle for a vague unease.

“At any rate, I called you here,” Sokolov said smoothly, “to ask for an exchange, favor for favor.”

“Yes?”

“I've been told I'm allowed to live,” continued Sokolov, his voice descending into an accusatory hiss, “but only as long as it takes to treat these... gentlemen. Then I am to be thrown to the hagfish. Your employer was very specific on this point.”

Corvo's face must have been truly terrifying, because Sokolov raised both blood-caked hands in a pacifying motion, “Your business partner, then? It's none of my concern, just convince him not to kill me.”

Working his jaw, Corvo let a breath out through his nose. He nodded tersely, and Sokolov slid past him, moving toward the stairs.

“I should go,” Sokolov gestured to the far side of the distillery, “I think it's best I get back to work, as it were. Once you've secured my survival, we can talk about other matters.”

“Go,” Corvo agreed, and the physician disappeared from view.

He swept his gaze back across the office and realized with a stab of embarrassment that the entire room was still watching him, although most of them turned away when he stared back. He turned on his heel and followed Sokolov down the stairwell, making his way across the central floor. The gang parted warily around him, most of them craning their necks to stare openly. He became suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he was wearing Slackjaw's clothes.

He opened the hall door cautiously, and several figures stepped back in unison. Three of the gang members were clustered at the end of the storage hall, regarding Corvo with mixed expressions of exhausted nervousness. Corvo jerked his head in the direction of Slackjaw's office.

“Is he in th--” Corvo only managed half the question before a booming shout echoed down the hallway.

“ _I don't give a fuck,”_ came Slackjaw's grating voice, “I ain't listenin' to excuses, you pull in every last man I ever put on patrol. I don't care if they're dead, you dig 'em up. You don't come back here an' tell me all those whalers just appeared out of thin air!”

There was a very quiet, mumbled reply from the poor target of the boss's wrath. The length of the hall was momentarily silent. Directly to Corvo's right, a man whispered, “You're not goin' in there, are you?”

There was a crash and a clatter as the office door was thrown open, an already-apologizing man tumbling backwards onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet, with Slackjaw's voice roaring after him.

“And find out where that fuckin' Serk is hiding! Nobody fucks Slackjaw on his own territory and lives!”

The man bolted from the office with a garbled, “Yes, boss,” and Corvo stepped aside as the scout hurried out of the hall, one hand pressed to a swelling eye. After a moment of quiet, there was a shattering noise from the office, then a wordless yell. Corvo drew in a slow breath, anticipating violence.

He walked carefully toward the open door, peering through the frame as he rounded the corner. Slackjaw stood on one side of his desk, both hands splayed against the wood and shoulders hunched with tension. His cleaver, still bloody, was buried in the wall behind him. There was broken glass all over the cot, where he had hurled an empty bottle across the room. Papers were strewn across the floor. Slackjaw did not look up when Corvo stepped hesitantly into the room.

“Corvo,” Slackjaw spat in a dangerously low growl, “I'm fast runnin' out of reasons not to kill you.”

The threat was empty and Corvo knew it, but he was a little surprised to find that it stung anyway. Slackjaw was still pretending to read something on his desk, his face red with anger.

Corvo cleared his throat softly, “I need Sokolov alive.”

Slackjaw gave him a short, empty laugh, “No.”

Corvo weighed whether it would be wiser to allow Slackjaw to calm down, or force the issue now. He allowed a silence to build, noticing the slight outline of bandages beneath Slackjaw's shirt. As Slackjaw straightened, standing up to look at Corvo, a small pinprick of red began to show on the white fabric. Corvo was about to comment when he caught the vicious expression on Slackjaw's face.

“You want your pet Tyvian,” Slackjaw finally said, “you go through me.”

His eyes held nothing but cold appraisal and a murderous intent. Corvo raised an eyebrow to cover a brief flash of nervousness. He had never been on the receiving end of what the gang called Slackjaw's “butcher's glare.” It was not a feeling he enjoyed. He set his teeth, glancing toward the shattered glass on the bed.

“I don't see why you offered to help me find him,” he said carefully, “if you only ever intended to kill him.”

“I've had a bounty on that bastard for years. What'd you think I meant to do with him?”

It was Corvo's turn to glare, “So all your charity was an act?”

There was a noticeable twitch across Slackjaw's face, a flicker of true outrage interrupting his practiced animosity. He took a jerky step forward, one hand still forming a shaking fist.

“My _charity_ ,” Slackjaw hissed, “ran out when you got my boys killed. I gave you a chance to leave. Now you wanna take what's mine. You're outta chances.”

Corvo felt a familiar shiver up his spine, an instinctual warning that he was about to be attacked. He buried it and met Slackjaw's eyes with an even stare. Eventually, Slackjaw let out a disgusted noise and turned toward the elixir still. He looked to Corvo, a bitter sneer contorting his features.

“Tell me something,” he waved a ringed hand, palm up, “what's a man like Sokolov worth to you?”

“You want to make a deal?”

“I wanna see what you'd be willin' to part with,” Slackjaw's mouth took on a sinister twist, “Slackjaw ain't never met a man without a price.”

“Well, now he has,” Corvo said, ignoring the slipping feeling of the conversation veering out of his control.

“You put up a lot of fuss over a man who ain't no better'n you or me. Maybe worse,” Slackjaw's hand traced the edge of the desk, “That weaselly bastard's taken as many of my men as Daud. I'm inclined to get revenge for that.”

Slackjaw's intent was transparent enough. Corvo felt a flaring anger begin to eat away his patience, “You want to torture him.”

“An' you wouldn' know anything about that, would you, Corvo?”

“ _Don't_.”

“Sure, _you_ take a hot iron to a man's face, and it's all heroic. Now Slackjaw wants in on the fun, and you're gonna play high and mighty about it? You ain't that innocent, Corvo. You were real eager to let me butcher them Pendleton twins.”

Slackjaw's sharp glance was a challenge, and Corvo was aware of his careful self-control unraveling. He had not come here to fight, but part of him yearned to strike the poisonous expression from Slackjaw's face.

“I needed them gone,” Corvo drew out each word, “I need Sokolov in one piece.”

“An' I need him dead. Ain't that somethin'.”

Corvo allowed his hand to drift over his sword. Slackjaw tracked the subtle movement, leaning into the desk as though nothing about the situation was remotely interesting to him.

Corvo squared his shoulders as best he could, “Don't make me fight my way out of here.”

Slackjaw tilted his head to one side, “You really feel like dyin' today?”

“Do you?”

“What are you gonna do, Corvo,” Slackjaw asked in a low voice, “use that black magic of yours on me?”

A sinking sensation drained the color from Corvo's face. He had hoped that Slackjaw had been too distracted to notice, too preoccupied with his own injuries to understand what had happened. Corvo realized now that he had only confirmed a suspicion Slackjaw must have been building for months. His mind raced to come up with an explanation, or at least a good lie.

“You think I wouldn't catch on?” Slackjaw continued, rough voice edged in weariness, “You ain't half as clever as you think, Corvo.”

Corvo gripped his sword, wrist cocked to flick the blade at a moment's notice. His pulse picked up as he watched Slackjaw for any signs of movement.

          “This where you sell me to the Overseers?”

A change came over Slackjaw, a sharpening of his posture and unmasking of his features. The carefully composed nonchalance fell away as Slackjaw stood rigidly upright. Corvo nearly drew his blade, but stayed his hand as the look on Slackjaw's face settled between pure disgust and honest, undisguised horror.

“ _Get out,”_ Slackjaw said, voice so warped by fury it was nearly unrecognizable.

Corvo wrestled back an urge to do so, instead rising to the challenge, “Not without Soko--”

“Corvo, I won't tell you twice.”

“And I'm not leaving him here so you can kill him.”

He had barely spoken the words when Slackjaw's hand made a rapid motion at the edge of the desk. The wood clicked and whirred, sliding open to reveal a hidden chamber just beside Slackjaw's thigh. The next thing Corvo knew, he was staring down the barrel of a pistol.

“You really think I'd give you over to _Martin?”_ Slackjaw snarled behind his extended arm, “You know what the Abbey does to witches? I ain't never abandoned a man to those bastards, and I ain't about to start.”

Corvo glanced from the steady hand at the trigger to the cracked anger of Slackjaw's face, “Is this any better?”

“ _Fuck you._ Months now, I been puttin' my boys in danger for you. I kept the Abbey off your back, you kept Daud off mine. And what did that get us? Raided by whalers and blown up.”

Slackjaw drew a rattling breath, and the pistol shook slightly in his hand. Corvo watched it, throat working.

“You know how many people I lost,” Slackjaw said slowly, “makin' sure Martin couldn't find you after that shit you pulled on Kingsparrow?”

Corvo felt his eyes widen. He stared at Slackjaw, and despite the moans from the surgery above and the mechanical hum of the distillery around them, it was as though all other sound faded away into a distant roar.

“What did you say?” Corvo breathed.

“You thought you were so well hidden,” Slackjaw's eyes were bright as lightning, “in that run-down mess near the plague wagon. I had you followed soon as you set foot in the city. Lost ten-- _ten_ of mine before you dragged your ass out of that apartment. And _damn you,_ I'd send every last one of them to die again.”

Corvo could hardly comprehend what he was hearing, “Why?”

“Why?” Slackjaw huffed in disbelief, “Martin emptied the Abbey lookin' for you. He only gave up when you moved in here. He couldn't find you right under his own nose.”

“No, I-- _Why?”_

“I owed you my life,” Slackjaw's voice hushed into a near-whisper, “an' like I said, what the Abbey does to witches ain't pretty.”

Muffled shouting echoed from above them, followed by the sounds of a struggle. Slackjaw waited until the noise had subsided.

“And today,” he continued in the same awful voice, “I gotta find out through Sokolov that you let that old bitch live. Through _Sokolov._ ”

The air was suddenly thick between them, and Corvo felt as though drawing breath had become an incredible effort. He looked into the barrel of Slackjaw's pistol and wondered vaguely how many men he had doomed to this same final sight. Of the thousand things he might have asked, Corvo could only manage, “What now?”

“Now, you're gonna do as you're told, and get out of my distillery.”

“You need me,” Corvo said around the lump in his throat, “and I'm going after Daud whether you drive me out of Dunwall or not.”

“I don't care what you do,” Slackjaw sounded more defeated than defiant, “just go. Go an' be trouble for someone else.”

Corvo spent a silent moment considering Slackjaw's voice, scratchy from overuse and broken by exhaustion. There was a shuddering desperation in the word _Go_ that inspired Corvo to ignore it entirely. Raising a careful hand, Corvo laid his palm over the cool metal of the gun. He allowed his fingers to overlap Slackjaw's as he pulled gently. Slackjaw released his grip and the weapon slid free. Corvo set it reverently down on the desk, starkly aware of the air leaving his lungs and the smooth barrel beneath his fingertips.

He felt, in the quiet, that he had been given a terrible secret to wield. He felt the weight of it pressing down on him, with all the heavy power and deadly edges men like Martin had always used to destroy lives. When he finally looked back to Slackjaw, he found the man watched him intently, but all the fire had burnt out of his eyes. He was, for once, without bravado or anger, simply waiting.

“I won't leave--” Corvo began, and was immediately cut off by a brisk knock. He turned to find a young man perched just outside the door frame, one hand raised and now frozen in air. He seemed to be already regretting his decision to interfere.

“Sorry to interrupt, boss,” he said sheepishly, “but Fix and the others are back from patrol. You said to tell you, so...”

Corvo glanced at Slackjaw, and to his credit the boss appeared merely tired and exasperated.

“Thanks, Bit,” Slackjaw sighed, and the boy spun sharply on his heel to hurry away. Slackjaw rubbed his eyes, a slow groan escaping his lips. He shot a sidelong glance in Corvo's direction.

“We'll... fight about this later,” his hand made a small circle in the air beside his head, “Imagine I'm hittin' you real hard right now.”

Corvo gave a slight smile despite himself, “I'm sure I'll be reeling for days.”

Slackjaw moved around the desk, leading the way into the hall, “Come on.”

Corvo fell into step behind him, “Changed your mind?”

“No. But I ain't sendin' a man across the sea without a meal,” he half-turned, regarding Corvo accusingly as he walked, “When was the last time you ate?”

 


	10. Stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is the chapter those "violence" and "torture" tags are referring to.

          The longer the day went on, the more Corvo doubted Slackjaw had the presence of mind to force him out. A few hours crawled by as Slackjaw issued orders to the rest of the gang. A number of men were sent to relieve the guards at the distillery's perimeter. The lookouts from Bottle Street reported no activity, not even an Overseer patrol.

          Sokolov eventually descended to report that he had done all he could for now, and that many of the wounded would need constant supervision. He predicted further losses. Slackjaw dismissed him with a hateful expression and a wave of his hand. Sokolov busied himself making a proper sling for Corvo's arm, muttering angrily the whole time. Under the pressure of Slackjaw's gaze, the Tyvian soon made quiet excuses and returned to the upstairs landing.

          With the distillery in order, Slackjaw led Corvo to the ground floor. They sat with the other uninjured men beside the humming stills and ate a truly tasteless whale meat stew prepared by one of the boys. A few loaves of bread stolen from the Golden Cat made it almost bearable. No one spoke. Every few minutes, someone would stop by and give Slackjaw a status report.

          By the time the stew was gone, three more boys were dead in the makeshift surgery. Slackjaw disappeared up the back stair, only to reappear a few minutes later, visibly pale and chased by muffled screaming. Corvo found himself on his feet, but Slackjaw gave a curt shake of his head and stalked away, headed for the yard. Corvo stood in place, surrounded by Bottle Street Boys whose heads bobbed back and forth as they looked attentively from their boss to Corvo.

          “Just go after him,” said a voice to Corvo's right.

          Corvo turned to give the speaker a harsh glare, but the man was preoccupied with his food. Freckled and reedy, he was well over a decade younger than Corvo. He had not yet deigned to look up.

          “Listen,” the young man continued lazily, using a bootknife to spear a piece of bread from the table, “he'll be out of sorts for days. If you've got somethin' to say to him, you should do it before he starts slicing people up.”

          “Ain't none of your business, Fix,” snapped one of the older men, “leave 'em be.”

          Something unspoken seemed to ripple through the group, and they all went pointedly back about their own business. Corvo had the distinct feeling he would be talked about as soon as he left. The idea of the gang knowing what had passed between he and Slackjaw sent a dissatisfied twitch across his face. Annoyed, he decided to take Fix's advice, and made his way up the stairs and out the front door.

          Warm sunlight heated his face, a pleasant feeling in the moment it took for the smell to reach him. The bin at the far end of the yard still smoldered, and the stench of burning flesh was wafting back toward the distillery. Corvo swallowed an urge to gag. The yard itself had turned a sickly reddish brown as the blood and oil soaked into the topsoil.

          A shriek of pain interrupted the quiet, and Corvo whirled, hand on his sword. He turned in place, carefully scanning the yard, but no figures moved. Another cry sounded from the end of the building, where the metal door to the holding cell listed open. Corvo approached carefully, relaxing as intuition told him what he would find. Slackjaw had evidently decided this was a good time for an interrogation. Corvo supressed a groan, pausing just long enough to slip his mask on.

          He trotted down the porch steps, rounding the corner of the cell to see Slackjaw looming over the captured whaler. One of the boss's fists was already smeared red, and the whaler's nose looked badly broken. It was hardly a fair fight. The man on the ground flailed backwards as best he could with both hands bound behind his back. He pushed himself up against the rear wall, feet splashing mud over his bare legs. The boys had left only his underclothes, fearing hidden weapons or poisons. He stared up at Slackjaw with a look of hopeless fear.

          “Don't you run away,” Slackjaw grunted, “you and Slackjaw're gonna be friends.”

          Corvo observed the panicked whaler with curiosity. This man was easily as old as Daud, and had a few long-healed scars on his face. His hair was thinning and salted with grey. The set of his pale shoulders was proud despite his muddy state and bleeding nose. His darting eyes passed over Corvo's mask and widened in terror.

          Slackjaw glanced toward the door, noticing Corvo's presence.

          “Corvo.”

          He nodded in greeting. Slackjaw fished a keyring from his pocket and tossed it in Corvo's direction. He caught it with his good hand and locked them in. He turned to lean back against the bars, depositing the keys conspicuously in his pants pocket. The whaler stared, but it wasn't the keyring that caught his attention. The man seemed enraptured by Corvo's marked hand, bound loosely to his chest by the white fabric of his sling.

          “We all know how this is gonna end,” Slackjaw said with an easy sort of confidence. His voice was light, a disarmingly friendly tone that had lulled many now-dead enemies into complacency. He had used it on Corvo when they'd first met, but Corvo knew a warning when he heard one. The whaler clearly did not, as he remained utterly silent.

          “Listen, friend,” the boss paced closer to the captive, reminding Corvo of a wolfhound cornering its prey, “Slackjaw ain't a man to offer mercy, but it's been a long week. I got half a mind to be reasonable, if you tell me what I wanna hear.”

          “What do you want to hear?” asked the prisoner in a weak voice that could only have been described as well-educated, if a little slurred. Not one of Daud's gutter strays, then. Perhaps a veteran assassin. His bloodshot eyes had not left Corvo's hand.

          “Why's Daud want the distillery?” Slackjaw demanded.

          The whaler seemed not to hear him. His lips parted and closed again, all while he remained fixated on the Outsider's mark. Corvo flexed his hand self-consciously. It struck him as odd that one of Daud's followers would be so interested in the mark. Had none of them ever seen Daud's own mark? They had shared its powers often enough.

          Slackjaw glanced from the whaler to Corvo. He clucked his tongue, kneeling down to grasp the whaler by the shoulder.

          “You know, I'm startin' to think you ain't so bright,” Slackjaw tugged at the rope around the man's wrists, forcing his arms to a painful angle and earning a gasp from the captive, “Here's how this works: I ask you somethin' and you answer me _._ So let's you and me try again. _”_

          Slackjaw dug his fingers in, and the prisoner made a choked sound as his arm was wrenched. With a grimace of effort, Slackjaw grabbed the whaler's hand and twisted it forcefully. There was a series of horrific popping sounds, followed by a mangled scream from the whaler. He collapsed forward, falling at Corvo's feet as he heaved and coughed in shock. The whaler's useless fingers twitched and flopped against his unharmed hand, which twisted to cradle its maimed twin. Corvo winced.

          “Daud,” Slackjaw prompted, “what's he want with Slackjaw's distillery?”

          “H-he--” the man took in a swift breath, “I can't--”

          Slackjaw gave Corvo a half-interested look. Corvo met his gaze and cocked his head slightly. Slackjaw paused, apparently considering his next course of action, then slid gracefully around the prisoner. He moved to the door and brushed against Corvo, shoulder to shoulder.

          “Keep an eye on 'im,” Slackjaw muttered, “Or are you still too precious to get your hands good an' dirty?”

          Corvo bit back an ugly retort, smothering a flare of anger at Slackjaw's nonchalance. He handed Slackjaw the keys, and the boss exited the cell, locking Corvo in with the prisoner. The whaler struggled, attempting to draw himself up on his knees.

          As Slackjaw's footfalls faded away, Corvo took a moment to clear his head. This was not how he had planned to spend the afternoon. Now that he watched the whaler, beaten and naked, a deep unease began to wind through Corvo's chest. Slackjaw had no doubt gone to retrieve some of his favorite toys. Why Slackjaw's methods should suddenly bother him now, Corvo did not know. Not that it mattered. Slackjaw had done enough for him; it was time he paid back the favor. He put aside his simmering guilt and adopted a familiar coldness, shrugging into it like a worn coat.

          He fell easily into the established routine, shifting his weight to make his posture as intimidating as possible. Careful of his injured arm, Corvo crouched down until he was eye level with the captive. The whaler refused to look at Corvo's masked face, continuing to watch the mark as though it might come to life.

          “You know who I am,” Corvo said quietly, “You know what I've done.”

          A weak nod.

          “Are you afraid?”

          This time the whaler hesitated a moment before nodding again, shivering.

          “I'm not interested in hurting you. Slackjaw, on the other hand...” Corvo allowed his emphasis to sink in.

          It seemed to take all of the whaler's concentration to mumble, “A quick death now or a slow one later.”

          “More or less,” Corvo admitted.

          The prisoner closed his eyes. Corvo took the opportunity to appeal to the man's self-preservation.

          “What could Daud possibly give you that's worth all this?”

          “Daud...” echoed the whaler, bitterness weighing his voice.

          “He won't protect you,” Corvo continued, sensing a break in the whaler's loyalty, “He left you to die. Slackjaw will come back in here and cut pieces off of you. He'll take his time. He'll enjoy it.”

          The whaler did not reply, apparently considering. He swallowed hard, shaking. He seemed to be on the verge of vomiting, his complexion taking on a greyish hue. Corvo reconsidered his approach. This wasn't what he'd expected from one of Daud's fearsome assassins. He wondered if their training accounted for surviving capture.

          “What does Daud want?” Corvo asked as gently as possible, “The territory? The elixir still? Is he after Martin as well?”

          With a twitch, the whaler glanced from Corvo's mask to the ground. He released a shuddering breath, face hardening into a determined expression.

          Corvo extended a hand,“Let me help you. All I need is a few words from you, and I'll bring you a bottle of hemlock and a cup of whiskey.”

          There was no response but a slight downward curving of the man's mouth. He was obviously fighting himself. He shifted his shoulders, wincing as his hand was jostled.

          “What can I do to make this easier for you?” Corvo asked, finding the words had poured from his lips unbidden. A memory drew him fleetingly back to a cold chair and a blazing pain, where the vague outline of the Lord Regent asked him the same words in the same voice. He leaned closer to the whaler, burying the thought.

          The man murmured something incoherent, followed by a weak cough and a pathetic sniffle. Corvo waited, observing the fearful twitching of the prisoner's face.

          “Well?” he promted.

          “You can die,” came the hushed reply.

          Corvo drew back, rocking onto his heels and letting out a low sigh. The whaler's eyes were unfocused, his mouth closed tightly. He was already steeling himself against his fate, taking jerky breaths to calm himself. Corvo stood slowly, frowning. It would be Slackjaw's way after all.

          Crunching footsteps sounded from the porch, and Corvo turned as Slackjaw reached the cell door. He unlocked it, giving Corvo an inquisitive look. Corvo shook his head and moved aside, allowing the boss to step into the cell. Corvo pulled the door shut as Slackjaw regarded the whaler, hands on his hips.

          He had retrieved his cleaver, strapped in its sheath against his leg. He wore a butcher's belt across his chest, full of hand-sized tools meant to prepare whale meat for packaging. A leather pouch hanging from his waist held an array of kitchen knives. Slackjaw's hands were bound in cloth, and a tarnished brass bar curved over his knuckles. Corvo flicked a hand to catch his eye. To his displeasure, Slackjaw awarded him a furtive look of excitement before turning to the whaler.

          “Well, now,” Slackjaw spread his arms, dramatic as ever, “I'm lookin' forward to gettin' acquainted, all proper-like.”

          Slackjaw prowled in a short circle around the cell. When the whaler failed to react, the boss knelt down behind him and glanced in Corvo's direction. Corvo shrugged, and Slackjaw withdrew a knife from his belt, slicing the binding between the whaler's wrists. The prisoner barely moved, murmuring in confusion. Slackjaw stood over him and rolled him with a boot. The whaler let out an abrupt cry as he lost his balance, his ruined hand pressed beneath him in the mud.

          Slackjaw tossed the knife, and it landed point-down in the dirt before the bleeding prisoner, “Defend yourself. Let's see what Daud's man is worth.”

          Corvo raised an eyebrow behind his mask. That was laying it on thick, even for Slackjaw. There was a shuffling from the yard, and Corvo turned slightly to see a crowd of Bottle Street Boys gathering outside. A few of them seemed to be collecting coin, betting how long it would take the whaler to break. Ordinarily, it never paid to bet against Slackjaw. Today, however, the boss seemed more concerned with petty revenge than answers.

          The whaler had struggled onto his side, and was staring at the knife in abject terror. Corvo shifted uncomfortably at his post at the door. Slackjaw was in a cruel mood, the rage buried just beneath his apparent amusement threatening to spill over.

          “Pick it up,” Slackjaw ordered, gesturing toward the fallen knife, “or I'll be findin' another place for it.”

          The older man's face contorted in fear, but he shuffled awkwardly to his knees, drawing his broken hand close to his chest. He was soaked in mud now, eyes wide and roving, and for a moment he looked almost dangerous. He extended his usable hand, fingers shaking hard.

          “What you think, boys?” Slackjaw asked, “How many hits will our new friend get in?”

          A chorus of jeering went up. This seemed to steady the prisoner a bit, and for the first time since his capture his eyes shone in a hard glare. Corvo tensed, placing his hand on his sword. He reminded himself that Slackjaw had played this game a hundred times, and never lost. The rest of the gang certainly had no concerns. He leveled a careful glance at Slackjaw's chest. A tiny spot of dried blood was the only indication of his injury.

          He needn't have worried. The whaler made an uneven lunge for the knife, letting out a wild yell. Slackjaw moved cleanly aside and slammed the heel of his boot into the whaler's face, sending him sprawling. Without waiting for the prisoner to recover, Slackjaw crossed the cell to stand over him with one foot on either side of the man's torso. He drew his cleaver, scraping the blade against the leather sheath.

          “You gonna talk yet?” Slackjaw's stance was lazy and unhurried.

          The whaler pitched onto his back and flailed at the boss's legs, but Slackjaw put his foot on the man's chest, not hard enough to hurt him. The prisoner stilled, eyeing Slackjaw's cleaver. Slackjaw laughed at him, the crowing laugh he only ever used as a weapon.

          “No? How about this, I'll let you choose.”

          He swung the cleaver back and forth, pointing the squared end of the blade at each of the whaler's hands in turn.

          The whaler's ragged breathing curled into a soft groan of terror, but he did not answer. Slackjaw gave a huff of disapproval, and Corvo glanced away just before a swish and a sickening crunch sounded. The screams that followed were formless and feral, underscored by another _thud_ as the cleaver finished the job. Corvo forced himself to look. Slackjaw had one foot on the whaler's wrist, where the already shattered hand was now missing its fingers and gushing blood into the dirt. The boss hefted his cleaver from the earth and swung it upward, sending a spray of blood and water across the cell.

          “Ain't that better?” Slackjaw grinned at the whaler, who was incoherent save for gurgling moans of pain, “Now you an' me got history. Now maybe you feel like talkin' with old Slackjaw.”

          Outside, the boys laughed and exchanged coins. The man on the ground didn't seem to hear them as he struggled to catch his breath. Slackjaw waited patiently, checking the cleaver in the light and giving the whaler as long as he needed to quiet himself.

          “So,” Slackjaw finally said over the low whimpering, “Slackjaw's thinkin' of a deal. You tell us all about Daud, you get to keep your other hand.”

          He raised the blade threateningly.

          “Don't--” the captive shouted, then flinched and turned his head away, willing himself to be silent.

          “Don't?” Slackjaw echoed, amusement giving way a sharp kind of eagerness, “You gotta give somethin' up first.”

          “I-- I can't--”

          Slackjaw leaned in Corvo's direction, tilting his head as if to ask Corvo's opinion. Corvo stepped forward to stand beside him, aware this might be their last chance to get a reliable answer from the whaler. He peered down at the man's bloody face. The whaler already looked years older, so pale he resembled a corpse.

          “Why?” Corvo asked, “What do you have to lose?”

          The prisoner let out a whining breath as he closed his eyes, tears catching in the lines of his face. His lips moved rapidly in silent panic as he shook his head. Corvo exchanged a confused glance with Slackjaw.

          “I can't--” the whaler finally said aloud, voice cracking, “Nothing to tell! It's too late now, he's coming for all of us!”

          “Daud? He startin' a war?” Slackjaw demanded.

          “His hands are everywhere!” the whaler drowned Slackjaw out, shouting haltingly, “He reaches out of the dark places and stamps out the light! I have seen his sickness at work!”

          He began to thrash back and forth, as if daring his captors to kill him. Slackjaw ground his heel a little, pinning the man in place.

          “Talk sense,” Slackjaw growled at him.

          “He will take us all,” the whaler threw his head back, baring his throat, “kill me-- kill me! H-he made the death of the world!”

          He began to laugh, a breathy, forced sound that rang of despair. His throat worked as his laughter was interrupted by a thick, wet cough. Slackjaw lifted his foot from the man's chest, stepping back in surprise. The whaler's breathing grew quick and rattling. He convulsed, suddenly overcome as he choked on thin air. He rolled onto his side, gasping between hacking coughs.

          Corvo felt his blood turn to ice. He reached for Slackjaw, closing his hand around the boss's arm and shoving him roughly toward the yard. Slackjaw needed no further instruction, withdrawing the key and opening the door with rapid precision. They stumbled out into the sun, and Slackjaw slammed the door shut and re-locked it before backing away.

          All joyous noise had hushed in the yard, the Bottle Street Gang now standing silent. In the cell, the whaler's lungs betrayed him as he fought to breathe, moaning and wheezing. A retching cough sent dark bile down his chin. His intact hand pressed helplessly to his chest as he gagged, the tears streaming from his eyes turning pink with blood.

          The gang looked on. No one moved. Corvo gripped Slackjaw's arm like a lifeline, visceral fear rooting him to the spot. Slackjaw stood stock still, hazel eyes wide.

          “Get your pet Tyvian,” Slackjaw said through gritted teeth, “we got a weeper.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, here's the rat plague!
> 
> Updates will resume in the new year, thank you all for reading!


	11. Crushing Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> If you're a returning reader, you may want to go back and read the new and improved Chapter 10. I wasn't happy with the initial version, so I largely re-wrote it to fix clarity, tone, and some out of character remarks. It's a little less violent now as well. (First time readers, you're all caught up already!)
> 
> Anyway, welcome back!

         

          “... probably ingested it, but as I said, it's too soon to tell. I don't think it's wise to break quarantine, however. If you've caught the plague, you'll start to exhibit symptoms soon. Tell me if anything changes. And-- Corvo?”

          Corvo started, distracted from his absent-minded staring at the wooden table. Sokolov and Slackjaw both watched him expectantly. They were seated beneath the first floor overhang, in the corner behind the stills where the boys usually took their meals. Sokolov tapped an impatient finger.

          In the three days since the captured whaler had first coughed blood, the distillery had been on a chaotic sort of high alert. The news of a possible outbreak had not sat well with the already shaken gang. If one whaler had the plague, it was likely more of them had been infected when they attacked the distillery, and Corvo had helpfully sprayed the entire gang with their blood. Sokolov had quarantined the place by sheer force of will, scaring the boys so thoroughly with his graphic account of plague symptoms that they were now more than a little paranoid.

          Upon learning Corvo and Slackjaw had been a hairsbreadth from the only confirmed case, Sokolov forbade them from setting foot outside the building, not even into the yard. The outer guards and men on the street had been called back from their patrols, and life inside the distillery had ground to a halt. The boys were growing restless and desperate. Slackjaw was in a mood which Sokolov described as 'violent.' There was nothing to be done, except to sit and wait.

          Corvo made an effort to pull himself back into the conversation at hand.

          “What?” he muttered.

          Sokolov awarded him an exasperated look, “Have you felt any different? Noticed any symptoms?”

          “No.”

          “Then I suppose we'll just have to wait,” Sokolov said, sounding almost disappointed, “We'll know before the week's out. The plague moves faster, now.”

          Corvo nodded, gaze dropping back to the table. He was having trouble shaking a numb tiredness from his mind. Two nights ago, he had laid awake until the office grew cold around him, staring up at the ceiling while the after-effects of whiskey spun the room. Dark thoughts he had banished months before crept up on him. The Outsider had perched nearby, out of sight, giving light sounds of feigned interest until Corvo abandoned himself to fitful sleep. His dreams were full of Emily's voice.

          The next night had been easier. Slackjaw had handed him a bottle of the special reserve and walked away. Corvo drank himself to sleep, waking up in the early morning to Slackjaw snoring lightly in the cot across the room and a quiet resignation hanging heavily in the air. Today, he had been awake since dawn, his mind utterly empty and his nerves frayed. He had wandered the building restlessly until Slackjaw had yelled at him to stop, claiming he was frightening everyone.

          “So, you got a plan?” Slackjaw asked, voice rough with stress. He was twirling a ring around one finger, attempting to stave off exhaustion.

          “I'm working on one,” Sokolov replied in a saccharine tone Corvo had heard him use on politicians and noblemen, “but it's not as if I have a laboratory and multiple samples to work from. This might be an unfamiliar strain, and you did have the only living subject executed.”

          “You're damn right, I did.”

          “Far be it from me to judge your actions,” Sokolov snapped, “I suppose we're all men of habit.”

          “You wanna tell me what you mean by that?” Slackjaw bristled.

          Sokolov fixed him with an expression of disdain, “I heard your handiwork from inside the building.”

          Slackjaw leaned forward, “You think I'd be all kind an' merciful to the son of a bitch that killed my men and brought plague in here?”

          “I would have preferred a little foresight. A living subject could have shown me how this strain would progress--”

          “So you could slice him up while he was still breathin'. You ain't no better than m--”

          “That is how _surgery_ works, yes,” Sokolov said in a clipped voice. For the first time in Corvo's memory, Sokolov appeared truly angry, his lips pressed into a tight line.

          “Sure, keep hidin' behind your Academy,” Slackjaw stood up, chair sliding back with a muffled scrape, “I know all about your deal with the Watch. You took street kids and starved 'em so they couldn' fight back, then gave 'em the plague. Treated sick folk like livestock.”

          “If you want to argue ethics with me, perhaps you should consider a change of profession. Something with less murder.”

          “Corvo, you better control him,” Slackjaw hissed, “or I swear I'm gonna cut his tongue out.”

          Sokolov stroked his beard, “Brilliant. And then who would you press-gang into tending to your overgrown hounds?”

          Slackjaw started forward, one hand striking out toward Sokolov's throat. Corvo stood rapidly, intercepting Slackjaw's hand with a firm grip around his arm. He moved around the table and guided the boss gently back.

          “Not here,” Corvo said under his breath, “and not now. We need him.”

          Slackjaw's furious eyes met his, sending a wave of heated chagrin through Corvo. This was not an argument he wanted to have a second time. They both stood their ground, Slackjaw leaning threateningly and Corvo with his fingers wrapped around Slackjaw's wrist. Close to Corvo's ear, Slackjaw let out a rush of air in surrender. He hesitated just a moment before pulling away, wrenching his arm free and storming up the rear stairs. Corvo watched his retreating form, noting a telltale stumble as Slackjaw pressed a hand to his injured side.

          Sokolov cleared his throat and Corvo rocked back on his heel, shooting the Tyvian a warning glance. The last thing either of them needed was for Slackjaw to wind himself any tighter.

          “Now that we have a moment...” Sokolov folded his hands on the tabletop, awaiting further invitation.

          “What?”

          “I do have a plan,” Sokolov's eyes gleamed with pride, “In a manner of speaking. Won't you sit back down?”

          Corvo did so, settling warily into his chair. The pure excitement in the Tyvian's expression was less than comforting. He was bathed in shadow, features thrown into sharp contrast by the low red light of the alarm system.

          “I've been examining the remains our late prisoner. I have a hunch about this strain,” Sokolov continued urgently, “but it acts quickly, and so should we. I will need your help.”

          Corvo rested his elbows on the table, “You're unusually willing.”

          “I have no desire to see this plague spread, it has been my personal downfall since its arrival. A new strain this close to the few remaining districts, well...” he waved one hand, “It would be only a matter of time.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “With any luck, it was just one man, and there's little to worry about. But if my fears are correct,” Sokolov gestured to the floor above, “it will spread. Even if we were to remain in quarantine and allow everyone present, myself included, to succumb to the plague, it would take just one rat to carry the disease outside.”

          A twisting in Corvo's gut shook off some of his fatigue, “You're saying this could wipe out the whole city.”

          “Within weeks.”

          “But you have a plan,” Corvo said a little too quickly.

          “I have a gamble, which will have to do,” Sokolov replied, and slipped a hand into the breast of his coat. He withdrew a compact leather case, artfully disguised as a book, and snapped it open. Small glass vials lined the interior, each one filled with blood. Sokolov placed the case on the table, holding it open. He tapped the little glass bottles thoughtfully.

          “The Crury samples,” his finger traveled from one row of vials to the other, “and raw samples I've drawn from the men upstairs.”

          “And?”

          “I'm fairly confident,” Sokolov resumed his pacifying tone, “this is the same strain I've been battling at Crury Wharf.”

          Corvo made an effort to read the older man's expression, but Sokolov's face was an inscrutable mask, “That's... convenient.”

          “No,” Sokolov lowered his voice, “it's telling. But I'll get to that later. Right now, I want to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement.”

          Corvo was certain he would dislike whatever Sokolov was about to propose, but he made a subtle gesture of assent with his hand.

          “You will accompany me back to Rudshore,” Sokolov said, as if it were a given fact, “We will take the results of my work to my lab, and I will either suceed or fail to reformulate my elixir. If it works, we use this distillery to produce the new formula. I am betting my life that I can beat this plague, or at the very least, this strain.”

          He sounded sincere enough, and there was a hint of tension in the Tyvian's voice suggesting he was more concerned than he let on. Corvo nodded his agreement.

          “Now, to your part of the bargain,” Sokolov said, and a sharp buzzing in the base of Corvo's skull caused him to cringe. A rush of noise drowned out Sokolov's words, and Corvo rubbed his temple as pressure built behind his eyes. For a moment, he expected the Outsider's voice in his ear, but no soft whisper or smirking comment could be heard. The noise subsided as quickly as it had arrived, and Corvo glanced up to see Sokolov eyeing him with a well-contained nervousness.

          “It's-- nothing,” Corvo improvised, gesturing to his own head, “Ever since this...”

          Sokolov relaxed, “Ah.”

          “You were saying?”

          “Your part of the bargain,” Sokolov repeated, leaning forward until the red light glittered in his eyes, “is to tell me everything about _that_.”

          He nodded toward Corvo's marked hand, still fastened to his chest. Corvo moved instinctively backwards, balling the hand in question into a fist. He was pleased to learn he could do so with less pain than before, and flexed his fingers appreciatively.

          “No,” Corvo said flatly.

          “Corvo, I have spent a lifetime in this pursuit. I seek only information, perhaps the odd demonstration.”

          “I'm not one of your test subjects.”

          Sokolov appeared agitated, as if there was something he wanted desperately to say but could not bring himself to do so. He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and drumming his hand on the table.

          “I know you have suspicions,” Sokolov watched as a few of the gang members formed a circle across the floor, beginning a game of dice, “You have every reason to doubt me, of course. But I must insist. My research concerning the Void is vital, now more than ever.”

          A thin hum sounded just beside Corvo's head, then slid into the spot between his eyes. It changed sharply in pitch, so abrupt that he winced. Sokolov, still distracted by the boys, did not react.

          “Why?” Corvo asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

          “You can't have failed to notice,” the Tyvian turned, and his gaze held a dull glint of unease, “shadows with no source, the mirages on the river. I'm sure you've seen more of it than anyone.”

          “More of _what?”_ snapped Corvo, as the humming raised itself into a vague pain. He was in no mood for evasive language.

          “The Void. Here in Dunwall.”

          “The--” Corvo allowed his hand to fall. He suffered a strange sense of reckoning, hearing Slackjaw's words echoed by Sokolov. But Sokolov did not seem overjoyed, as Slackjaw had expected. Instead, he seemed almost haunted, regarding Corvo with the stare of a man weighed down by his own knowledge.

          “I admit,” Sokolov's voice dipped low, nearly too soft to be heard over the hum of the stills, “some of what you saw in Rudshore was... relevant. The shrine. The heart.”

          Corvo blinked, suddenly feeling lost, “What heart?”

          Sokolov flinched sharply, drawing back from the table. A flash of emotion, so quick it might have been imagined, passed through the man's eyes. He recovered almost instantly, but the impression remained in Corvo's mind. Sokolov had been, however briefly, completely terrified.

          “We can discuss this along the way,” Sokolov snapped the leather case shut, changing the subject so suddenly that Corvo was unable to protest, “in the meantime, I suggest you talk to your... friend.”

          The emphasis Sokolov placed on the word caused Corvo to frown, but he could not identify the reason why. It was enough that Sokolov had intended it as an insult. Corvo stood, fixing the Tyvian with a critical glare.

          “Fine,” he said, “but you're going to explain yourself.”

          “I am forever explaining myself,” Sokolov lamented, “it is the curse of a superior intellect.”

 

          Slackjaw was seated at his desk, turning an empty elixir flask over in his hands. He listened attentively as Corvo outlined the plan. Corvo was careful to leave out any mention of the Void, or Sokolov's desire to study his mark. He merely said they would be traveling to the Flooded District, where Sokolov could attempt a cure. Slackjaw nodded, setting the unused flask down on the desk.

          “He think this'll work?” Slackjaw asked.

          “He hopes.”

          This drew a huff of humorless laughter from Slackjaw. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms gingerly across his chest. He seemed subdued, in contrast to his earlier anger. He rubbed his chin, scratching his beard as he stared down at the desk.

          “You feel any different?”

          Corvo furrowed his brow at the question, “No. Why?”

          Slackjaw looked briefly toward him, and in the momentary glimpse of his eyes, Corvo thought he saw a faint glimmer of concern. Slackjaw extended his hand flat over the desk, splaying his fingers a few inches from the scratched wood.

          “ _Heh,_ ” Slackjaw gave a subtle turn of his head, “No reason.”

          Slackjaw's hand was shaking. What started as a slight quiver grew slowly into a persistent shudder, worsening until Slackjaw formed a fist. He flexed and relaxed his hand, resting it on the desk. Corvo stared at the boss's still jittering fingers, then glanced up at him. Slackjaw looked miserable, a stormy uncertainty pulling at his features. He was dodging Corvo's gaze, and the thick fear clouding his eyes caused Corvo to sit up straighter.

          “Nerves,” Corvo managed, “we've all been--”

          “Maybe,” Slackjaw said through clenched teeth, “Maybe I woke up with sore lungs.”

          “In three days?” Corvo asked incredulously, caught between putting Slackjaw at ease and tending to his own worries, “I've never heard of the plague moving that fast.”

          “That's funny,” Slackjaw's voice was so quiet Corvo had to strain to hear it, “your friend Sokolov has.”

          Corvo looked again to Slackjaw's hand, the strong fingers and prominent veins adorned by well-loved rings. Corvo had never seen that hand waver. Now it rattled even as he watched. He followed the pronounced lines of Slackjaw's arteries up his forearm, tracing the edges of a skull-and-bottle tatoo until it disappeared beneath a rolled sleeve. Corvo realized, with a cold shock, that the boss's whole frame was shaking slightly. Slackjaw gave him a guarded glare, full of defiant anger and unchecked terror.

          Corvo opened his mouth, intending to offer words of support, but none came. He took a moment to put his mind in order, pushing back the inevitable panic as it clawed its way forward. If Slackjaw had the plague, what were the odds the disease would spare Corvo? Then again, he reasoned, _he_ felt perfectly healthy, if overtired.

          “I'm not sick,” Corvo said, as much to reassure himself as to convince Slackjaw, “and if I don't have it, there's no reason you...”

          He trailed off as he remembered Slackjaw's cleaver making quick work of the whalers, their blood splattered across his face. The taste of it still on his tongue. Slackjaw let out a clipped laugh, turning away to watch the wall.

          “Shit, Corvo, that's real comfortin'.”

          Corvo closed his eyes, as though willing the moment to pass would change anything. A distant crackling filled his head. It struck him with pointed precision how sick he was of this feeling, this sliding of the earth from beneath him and his own powerless grasping. The plague had taken enough from him. It would not take what remained. The mark grew warm on his hand, and he felt it flare. The buzz in his head turned to an electric rush as he pushed himself to his feet.

          “Enough,” he said aloud, and something of the echoing Void sounded from his throat, “I'm going with Sokolov. Keep anyone from leaving.”

          He realized, in a moment of confusion, that his vision had changed, throwing the world into the dark shades of the Outsider's borrowed sight. Slackjaw was a gleaming outline at the desk. The mark still burned with white light. Corvo willed the Void to dissipate, hand falling limply against his chest and sight reverting to normal. Slackjaw was, for once, living up to his name, mouth gaping and eyes wide.

          “If he can fix this,” Corvo continued, charging on as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, “you'll let Sokolov live.”

          Slackjaw gave a vague nod. He stood slowly, edging his way around the desk to stand before Corvo with a searching expression. He moved close, and Corvo caught the scent of whiskey and whatever it was Slackjaw used to shave.

          “I'll need your word,” Corvo said.

          “That's a steep price,” Slackjaw gave one of his crooked half-smiles, eyes crinkling, “I always keep my word.”

          “I know,” Corvo told him, sparing a quick glance at Slackjaw's mouth where it twisted at the edges. Out of the corner of his eye, Corvo saw Slackjaw's hand flex toward him, trembling, then clench.

          “You come back alive,” Slackjaw's voice was strained, “an' maybe I consider it.”

          Corvo watched the motion of Slackjaw's throat, “I thought you wanted me gone?”

          “You know what I want,” came the muttered reply, practically growled. Corvo's gaze snapped up to meet Slackjaw's, and he found the other man staring at him with a feverish intensity. A self-conscious heat spread over Corvo's face.

          “Besides,” Slackjaw continued roughly, “can't honor the deal 'less you bring him back here. So get yourself back in one piece, and maybe I give Sokolov his life.”

          Corvo figured that was as close to a promise as he would get. He nodded.

          “Alright,” he said softly.

          He leaned back to walk away, but found his own feet unwilling. He could hear the uneven hitch in Slackjaw's breath, could see the heavy shadows around his eyes where they longed for sleep. The familiarity of it was staggering. Corvo was not sure when or how it had happened, but he found he knew every line of Slackjaw's face, every slight pursing of his lips and narrowing of his eyes. The thought of seeing any of these things ravaged by plague sent a twining fury deep into his bones.

          He allowed his shoulders to curl forward, his head dipping into the space between them as he made a mental inventory of things he knew by heart. The smell of the linen shirt, the tang of alcohol, the sunburnt skin. These were _his_. He had claimed them when he refused to leave the city, taken them on as he slid the pistol from Slackjaw's grasp. He wrestled momentarily with possessive anger, unsure of the impulse twitching through his fingers. Slackjaw was frozen before him, the rise and fall of his chest uneven with tension.

          One memory, cold and sharp, of the Hound Pits was all it took to jar Corvo from the spell. He knew the cost of comfort, of the familiar. He would not pay it again. He took one long breath of the distillery's stale air before turning abruptly and moving purposefully toward the door.

          “You stay alive,” ordered Slackjaw, and Corvo nodded, careful not to look back.

 

* * *

 

          River traffic was usually thickest in midtown, between the Distillery District and Dunwall Tower. On a good day, most of the boats were plague barges, re-purposed container ships carrying the dead and dying to the Flooded District, along with their accompanying tugboats. When the gang wars were at their peak, the Overseers had taken to the water to hunt down criminals. It was rare to see the river empty, even now that the plague had fully gripped the city. As he looked out over the barren Wrenhaven, shining and murky, Corvo felt the beginnings of a sinking unease.

          “Good day for sailing,” Sokolov quipped as they descended the wide stone steps to the shore.

          The streets were still deserted, without a single Overseer to be seen. Corvo had checked the entire block for whalers and found none. He didn't dare brave Clavering, since the watchtower still scanned the mouth of the boulevard. As far as he knew, he and Sokolov were the only living souls traversing the district.

          In the hours since dawn, the sky had clouded over, ending the few blessed days of sunlight. Where the grey clouds met the skyline, a dark haze of rain could be seen. The worst of it was settled just downriver. They would have to go through it on their way to Rudshore.

          “Are you sure you can do this?” Corvo asked, heaving himself over a low drainage pipe. He pushed his way through the knee-high weeds at the water's edge, pausing while Sokolov caught up.

          “Not remotely,” Sokolov panted as he jogged a few steps, “but I'll take long odds over none at all.”

          “Wonderful,” Corvo sighed, leading Sokolov through the reeds where the boat was tied.

          “This is hardly the time to worry,” the Tyvian said smoothly, “Either the plague kills us, or it does not. We have nothing to lose.”

          They found the boat somewhat muddy but no worse for wear. Corvo pulled up some seagrass and wiped it as clean as he could. The fuel meter showed just enough whale oil to make the round trip. With some coaxing, the engine sputtered to life. Corvo eased the craft out in reverse as the first drops of rain pattered down onto the beach.

          Soon they were out on the open water, hugging the sea wall as they rode the current downriver. Corvo steered them past the edge of the district, picking up speed as he began the wide curve around the shore. The rain came to meet them, sudden downpour drenching the little boat. Corvo yearned for his coat, presumably still hanging on the wall of Slackjaw's apartment. The wind from the sea blew the rain almost horizontally. Grumbling, Sokolov flipped his wide collar up around his chin.

          “N-Nevermind the plague,” the Tyvian muttered, “we're going to die of exposure.”

          He fell silent as the choppy water and driving rain grew too loud for conversation. Corvo struggled to keep the boat under control, steering around the eddies at the river's center. The spray splashing into the boat was cold as snow. The weather began to grate at Corvo's nerves. The riverboat would stand no chance in a real squall, even this far upriver. If conditions got any worse, they'd have to pull into port.

          As they breached the sharp angle of the shore, Kaldwin's Bridge appeared, standing tall over the rest of the city and silhouetted in the low light. The rolling heavens beyond moved rapidly, the storm rushing toward them with unnatural speed. The sky above was turning black, clouds looming low and heavy. The rain stung at Corvo's face, and the rocking waves grew dangerously rough. Swearing to himself, Corvo made to pull the boat back around. They were far from shore, but they might yet outpace the bulk of the storm. They would have to travel to Rudshore by land.

          In the smothering wind, a dissonant tone caught Corvo's ear. He tilted his head, squinting in the rain. The strange sound echoed around his head, and he recognized it with a shiver. There were voices, whispering indistinctly in the storm. He glanced back toward Sokolov, and found the scientist wearing a horrified expression. The fleeting cries grew louder as the gales whipped, and Corvo was able to make out fragments of words and names. The boat swayed dramatically, listing sickeningly beneath them.

          “Hold on!” he shouted to Sokolov, but the wind took his voice. Sokolov yelled something inaudible in reply, gripping the side of the boat with white knuckles and a whiter face. The boat rolled and pitched, even as Corvo leaned on the tiller and pushed the engine. There was a flash from the sky as lightning forked down, followed by a pounding thunder. A second jagged light sent an explosion of sparks from the bridge, and the resounding noise was so loud Corvo felt it rumble in his chest.

          The storm howled around them, the wind and its voices screaming as the swells grew tall and steep. Corvo saw the swirling current ahead and steered hard toward shore, despite the seeping fear in his stomach telling him they wouldn't make it. The boat creaked as it fought the tide. Halfway through the turn, a gust of wind slammed into the broad side of the boat and heaved them toward the rising waves. The craft tipped dangerously, one rail already buried in water, and Corvo barely had time to reach for Sokolov before they were caught by the swells and thrown headfirst into the river.

          The shock of the freezing water was enough to send a brutal numbness through Corvo, heavy force constricting his chest as his body was pummeled by the oncoming wave. The current spun him ferociously, driving him downward into a hushed darkness so complete that he thought for a moment he must have gone blind. He held his breath as best he could, cursing the bubbles of air floating from his lips. The silence was utterly disorienting. He flailed his arms, searching desperately for Sokolov, and his injured shoulder throbbed. The crushing weight of the river slowed his motion and turned his limbs to stone.

          There was so little light from above that it was impossible to tell how deep the wave had pushed him. He struggled to swim upward, eyes straining to adjust. He called on the Void, but the absolute blackness was immune to his altered sight. The mark sparked and faded as Corvo lost his concentration to panic. His lungs began to burn.

          From the distant riverbed came a deep groaning sound, so low and gaping that the water itself seemed to vibrate with noise. Corvo, pulled sideways by the current, sensed movement far beneath. Leagues below his own treading feet, something massive stirred. The entire riverbed appeared to rise as an enormous shape, blacker than even the eternal night of the Wrenhaven, floated silently in the depths.

          Corvo, already in dire need of air, felt a choking sensation as his throat closed in instinctual terror. His head pounded, his lungs clenching as they begged for relief. A hard, demanding voice called to him, and he was unsure whether or not he had already succumbed to the water.

_Well, Corvo?_

          The consuming drumming sound thundered through him again, and the huge outline below seemed to list to one side. As it did, a smaller shape within the darkness gave off a faint reflection of light.

_Are you tired yet?_

          A flicker of understanding lighted Corvo's last moments of consciousness. The great whale beneath rolled limply, its unseeing eye catching the light. It let out one final, thrumming moan as it drifted in the current. Its dying cry was the last thing Corvo heard before his tortured lungs gave out, and his mind faded into nothingness.

 


	12. All at Sea

          “ _Corvo, wake up.”_

_Emily was up early again. Corvo tried and failed to work up the energy to respond. He closed his eyes tighter against the bright morning light. In his grogginess, he couldn't quite remember what day it was. If Emily was waking him up, he realized, he must have overslept. Had the maids not come in?_

          “ _Corvo,” she called, a little more urgently this time._

          “ _I'm up,” he mumbled._

          “ _Please,” she begged, and this time her voice broke with emotion._

_That was wrong. Had something happened? Was she in danger? A wave of concern spurred him into consciousness. He rolled over and sat up with jerky readiness, one hand raised to reach for her._

_The sight awaiting him caused him to withdraw his hand. A great expanse of murky grey light surrounded him. Floating lazily by were the ruined facades of buildings, crumbling walls accompanied by arc pylons and steet cars. The face of Dunwall Tower loomed ahead, stones separating and rebuilding with unhurried ease. Torn flags bearing the Kaldwin crest fluttered silently free._

_The Void was hushed but for the distant ringing of a bell, the familiar chime of the clock tower. It sounded a few times before receding into the quiet._

_Corvo waited for the cool voice, or the shadowy form. He took a deep breath, the smell of the tide crawling through his senses. A minute of apprehension passed, until finally Corvo could stand it no longer. He pushed himself to his feet, turning in a slow circle._

          “ _Am I dead?” he asked the air._

_A muted hum of laughter rang behind him. He looked for the sound, finding the Outsider floating in the grey. The deity had not been there a moment before._

          “ _Do you want to be?” the Outsider lifted a graceful hand in invitation, black nails stark against corpselike skin, “Would that be easier for you?”_

          “ _No,” Corvo ground out. Dischord tinged the air between them. It was one thing for the Outsider to tease him, but as the blue banners of Dunwall Tower disintegrated around them, Corvo had the distinct feeling he was being played with. The Outsider watched him carefully, dark eyes glistening. Behind him, the gold and black emblems of the Abbey crawled across the sky._

          “ _So certain,” the faint echo of light from a passing lamp played across his face, “But part of you wonders if you would find peace here.”_

          “ _Why are you doing this?” Corvo asked, his voice losing its confidence even as he spoke._

_The Outsider tilted his head, expression impassive. He considered Corvo for some time, lips eventually curling into the beginnings of an impatient frown._

          “ _Hmn. Your world is full of people who think I am to blame for all their misfortunes. I thought you were above such... childishness.”_

          “ _No, I don't mean--” Corvo huffed in frustration, “I mean the storm, the voices, the nightmares-- Emily. Why show me all of this? It isn't real.”_

_The twist of the Outsider's mouth turned wry as his eyes narrowed._

          “ _What makes you say that?”_

_Corvo felt the chill of fear before he realized he'd just been fed another non-answer. He worked his jaw, reminding himself that harsh words would do him no good. The Outsider bared his teeth._

          “ _It's all slipping away from you, isn't it, Corvo?” the smooth features sharpened momentarily, a predatory hunger curling just beneath the smile, “Your city. Your friends. Your mind. Can you hear them even now, crying out in the dark? Or have you forgotten them already?”_

          “ _What aren't you telling me?” Corvo's voice cracked with agitation, “Please...”_

_Without a word, the deity flickered and reappeared just before Corvo's face. The impossible depth of his eyes held no reflection, save for the faint ring of light around their edges. He cocked his head, leaning forward, and Corvo could feel the icy cold emanating from the white skin. Frozen lips pressed softly against Corvo's ear, and the brush of the Outsider's face on his cheek was smooth as glass._

          “ _You'd better hurry,” the Outsider murmured, “it's all falling apart.”_

_His voice cut through Corvo like a blade, the words striking dearly familiar. A visceral pull of obsession, of love, flared through him only to recede before he could place the sound. He could almost remember having heard it before. Even as Corvo tried to speak, the Void turned white around them. The Outsider faded from vision, a dark smear in the light. A sudden wind lashed across Corvo's face, biting at his skin, then--_

          He awoke gasping for air. He coughed hard, salt water spilling from his mouth. His face was pressed against something cold and wet. His whole body ached, his chest hurting so badly he wondered if his ribs had been broken. As his lungs worked and his throat expelled water, he made a bleary effort to take stock of his surroundings.

          He was lying face down on rough stone, his feet still in the water and buoyed by the gentle flow of the tide. The air was cool, a slight breeze the only hint of the storm. The sky, though still cloudy, had lightened considerably.

          A sharp pain told Corvo his injured arm was pinned beneath his chest. He flexed his fingers and drew his good hand toward his face, feeling the ridged stone scrape his palm as he pushed himself up. A deep cough forced the last of the river water from his lungs, followed shortly by a mouthful of bile. He remained in place, propped up on one shuddering arm as his stomach emptied itself. He took heaving breaths and waited for the shock to pass.

          Once he felt steady enough, he thrust himself up and drew his knees forward. He sat on his feet, boots squelching, and stared ahead.

          He had washed up on the partially submerged waterbreak of Drapers Ward. The district's outer wall rose before him, sun-bleached and silent. He was some distance south of the docks. With a grunt, he forced himself to his feet, stumbling a little as his legs threatened to give out. He turned, hoping against all reason to see some sign of Sokolov or the boat.

          The river was calm, its surface shining with a spiteful tranquility. No shape floated by, nor did anything appear to have washed up on the same stretch of the Drapers' waterfront. The huge chalky white stones along the shore held no hint of a body. Corvo stood, dripping, for a long while, his mind devoid of thought. Eventually, he looked toward the wall and began to climb the rocks.

          His shoulder complained as he put weight on it, and his wet boots slipped on the uneven stone. A sheer ledge, short enough to climb, stood between the rocky waterbreak and the towering district. He dragged himself over the edge and onto a grassy landing, where the decimated wood of a long-abandoned dock jutted over the water. He rolled onto his back, already winded.

          Staring up at the cloud-filled sky, Corvo felt an eerie sense of calm wash over him. The taste of salt and bile in his mouth and the jagged pain in his shoulder were too vivid, too crisp to be a dream. He would not be waking up soon. He listened to his own breathing and wondered if this had all been inevitable from the start.

          Anton Sokolov was most likely dead, and any hope for a cure dead with him. Even if by some miracle he had survived the storm, he would be stranded somewhere along the shore with no way of reaching his lab in Rudshore. Either way, Dunwall was out of time. The plague would make quick work of the Bottle Street Gang, and find its way into the streets once more. Corvo gave in to a bizarre urge to laugh, but the sound rang bitter and empty. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

          So he couldn't save the city. That was all right, he reasoned with himself. Dunwall was just another name to add to the lost. He consigned it to memory, beside Emily and the Empress. As he watched the clouds, he added name after name. Sokolov, most likely. Samuel, by now. Martin, eventually. Slackjaw, despite the stinging hollowness in Corvo's chest. It was all beyond his control now.

 _There has always been a city here,_ the Outsider had said to him, and Corvo had not understood, _It has always fallen._

          It was no use waiting for plague to take him. He groaned aloud as he sat up, leaning to one side and getting slowly to his feet. A short glance down revealed a ragged hole in his belt where his mask had been. He fumbled for his sword, relieved that the faithful blade had not been swept away. He flicked it open and water flew from the sharp edge. Across the overgrown landing, a flight of stairs snaked haphazardly up the wall. He made his way over to it and climbed slowly, his feet leaden and clumsy.

          At the top of the stairs, he paused, breathing in the salt air and catching the faint stench of the slaughterhouses on the breeze. He stared out over the river with a clarity he had not felt since the Empress's blood was warm on his hands.

          Far beyond the bridge, across the gleaming Wrenhaven, the Flooded District beckoned. Corvo plotted a path down the river. While his lungs still drew breath, he would finish the job he had started when he'd first left Coldridge. Daud would see him coming, but all the foresight in the world could not save him now. He had brought the Empire to its knees and dealt it a death blow. Corvo would see to it that he paid in blood.

          He pushed the list of names from his mind and set off into the streets of Drapers Ward. There was nothing left now but revenge.

 

          Drapers Ward was a graveyard. Bones picked clean by rats littered the streets. Trash blew by in the wind, collecting in corners and spilling out of rotted doorways. The abandoned tenements were silent, as were the high-rent blocks near the old market. Corvo focused on his own footfalls and listened for distant sounds of weeper activity. The clouds overhead moved fast, weak sunlight slowly fading from the sky.

          As he wound through the streets, a nagging feeling began to prick his senses. Something about the intense quiet was too careful, too constructed, and the wrongness of it seemed to amplify the longer he walked. He realized with a twisting chill that he had not seen a single rat in blocks. He rounded the corner of a wide brick square and paused, eyeing the open space ahead. The square had once been a thriving market, its inviting shops now in a state of decay and still wet with rainwater. There was no real cover between the wall to Corvo's left and the far side of the street. It was an obvious enough trap.

          A faint click, almost too low to be heard, echoed once over the bricks. Corvo closed his eyes briefly. He had hoped to avoid conflict until he reached the other side of the district. His shoulder ached, and he was in no shape for a fight, but his patience was beginning to wear dangerously thin. Straightening his posture, he twirled his sword and walked purposefully into the square.

          “Hold it!”

          Before he could locate the source of the voice, he was surrounded. Flickering figures moved in the shadows of buildings, then rushed to form a circle around him. Within a second, a half dozen whalers held him at the ends of their swords. Corvo tightened his grip on his own blade. One of the taller men strode casually toward him, and Corvo hesitated, confused. The whaler was unarmed and nonchalant, his mask glinting in the low light.

          “Looter?” the apparent leader asked his companions, voice muffled by an air filter, “No Eel tattoos. Bottle Street, maybe? What are you doing so far from home?”

          The last question was addressed to Corvo. He stared back in total bewilderment, unable to fathom why the whalers had not yet attacked him. His confusion persisted until he realized that most of the assassins had never seen him without a mask.

          “Well?” the whaler raised his sword along with his voice, “Drop your weapon. Do yourself a favor.”

          The absurdity of the request was almost humorous. Corvo allowed himself a slight smirk before flexing his marked hand. The dark lines flared to life with a flash.

          “Oh, _shit,”_ said one of the whalers, just before Corvo blinked out of existence.

          Materializing in midair, he threw himself forward, leading with his sword and rushing the talkative whaler blade-first. The sword punched easily through the soft fabric below his mask. Corvo gave the blade a firm twist, feeling it scrape the man's spine before he pulled it free. The whaler collapsed, blood spraying, as Corvo turned to face the rest of the group. The other whalers flinched in shock, taking a collective step back. It would be the last mistake they ever made.

          The moment Corvo twitched his fingers, time halted around him, casting the frozen whalers and watery bricks in the grey shades of the Void. The whalers were arranged in a sloppy half-circle, in various stages of surprise. Corvo shifted his sword against his palm, inverting his grip. He steadied the blade so it extended just above his shoulder. The mark flared brightly as he blinked past the whalers, sword flashing. He stopped short facing the last whaler in line, catching his own momentum as he dug in his heels.

          He formed a fist and pulled at the Void. With barely any effort, time snapped back into rapid flow, the muted colors of Drapers Ward returning with a hiss. Behind him, the circle of whalers fell, their throats open and spewing. Warm blood spattered up Corvo's back. The lone remaining whaler let out a gurgling cry of terror and raised his sword, but Corvo batted the weapon aside. He reached out with his marked hand, fingers closing firmly around the man's windpipe. There was a clatter as the whaler's blade hit the ground.

          “Is Daud still in Rudshore?” Corvo asked, squeezing the whaler's throat. He ignored a burning throb in his shoulder as his muscles clenched.

          “Y-yes,” the man choked out.

          “Good. You're going to take a message.”

          The whaler was attempting to claw at Corvo's hand. Unconcerned, Corvo flicked his sword clean and pressed it above the man's hip, just hard enough to draw blood. The assassin stilled.

          “Tell him Slackjaw sends his regards,” Corvo hissed through gritted teeth, “And tell him to expect an old friend.”

          Corvo released him and the man stumbled back, rubbing his neck. The whaler caught his footing and took off at a run, eventually blinking out of sight over the rusting remains of a City Watch barrier. Corvo stood in place and watched him go, blood heated from the brief fight. He was about to fold his sword when a voice called out,

          “Corvo, _duck!”_

          He did so, falling into a crouch as quickly as his reflexes would allow. There was loud, mechanical crack from across the square, and a wet thud from just behind Corvo's back. He glanced over his shoulder to find one of the whalers had apparently survived long enough to raise his crossbow. The assassin slumped on his knees, head lolling, a fisherman's harpoon buried in his chest.

          Corvo whirled. His rescuer was walking briskly toward him, boots soundless on the brick street and modified harpoon gun balanced on her shoulder. She pushed back a stained cap covering her red hair, eyes sparkling over a tight smile. The sight of her face was such a welcome relief that Corvo let out a soft noise between surprise and laughter.

          “Cecelia?”

          “What are you doing here?” she asked him, a cautious excitement creeping into her voice.

          “I could ask you that,” Corvo said, getting to his feet and reaching out for her. She offered him a steady hand, and he was relieved to find she was flesh and blood, not some figment of the Void. She looked healthy and strong, her face flushed and her nose a little red in the cold air. She had cut her hair short, and it curled behind her ears to hang at her chin. As Corvo collapsed his sword, she glanced around the square, apparently unfazed by the gory sight at their feet.

          “I live here,” she replied, “Well, nearby anyway. Do you know what's going on?”

          Corvo awarded her a blank stare, “What?”

          “Whalers,” she gestured to the bodies, “they never came here before, but a few weeks ago they took the place over. Cleaned out all the weepers and most of the rats. Now _you're_ here. So what's going on?”

          Rather than wait for his answer, Cecelia edged past him and grasped the spent harpoon, pressing her foot to the dead whaler's chest to better pry the weapon free. Corvo watched her, mystified. This was not the shy young woman he'd last seen at the Hound Pits. Her mannerisms were the same, but her carriage was confident and capable, her hands strong as she gave the harpoon a swift pull. It came free with a squelching sound, and Cecelia shook it to clean off the blood. She looked to Corvo expectantly.

          “Did you...” he struggled to order his thoughts, “Have you been watching me?”

          “You mean did I see anything impossible?” she asked, glancing at the mark, “Corvo, I saw what you did at the pub. It was... sort of obvious.”

          Corvo took this in stride with a stab of embarrassment. He had forgotten she was there at the bloody finale of the loyalist plot. At the time, he hadn't expected to survive to the end of the day. If she had watched his assault on the City Watch, Cecelia had seen some impossible sights indeed.

          “It's complicated,” he said, addressing her earlier question, “Daud is trying to take over the city.”

          “He their leader?” she used the bloody harpoon to point to the whalers.

          “Yes.”

          She lifted the harpoon and clicked it into place on the heavy gun, winding the firing mechanism, “Is that bad? I'd have thought you'd be happy. After what Martin did to you, I mean.”

          The idea struck an odd chord in Corvo's memory. It was true enough that Martin deserved any ill fortune he had coming, but between the chaos of the attack and the immediate threat of the plague, Corvo had never thought to assess Daud's motives. What _did_ Daud have to gain by overthrowing the High Overseer? If the assassin had an outstanding feud with Martin, Corvo had never heard of it. He puzzled over the question, watching Cecelia prime the tall harpoon gun. The stock came up to her chest.

          “We should probably move,” she said gently, “there are usually two patrols. I don't want to be here when the next one comes through.”

          Corvo indicated that she should lead, and she stepped over the dead whalers to move toward the farthest alley.

          “You know,” she paused beside him, beaming up at him with the first relaxed smile he'd ever seen on her delicate features, “I'm really glad to see you, Corvo.”

 

* * *

 

          As night fell, they ducked into an abandoned tenement. Cecelia led the way down a narrow alley to a nondescript black doorway. The door let out a groaning crack as she bumped it with her hip, creaking inward on fragile hinges. Corvo stepped quickly into a dark hallway, hunching under the low ceiling. The door swung shut of its own accord. Cecelia ushered him into a newspaper-lined basement, furnished with an old, stained sofa and a dim oil lamp. She rested the harpoon gun against the wall and produced a matchbook. As she lit the lamp, a weak orange glow threw shadows around the cramped little room.

          “This is just a hideout,” she explained, leaning away from the table where the lamp sputtered, “We're close to home, but they'll sweep the next street over in a few minutes. They come every day at dusk, like clockwork.”

          Corvo sank onto the musty yellowed sofa, grateful for the chance to rest, “What are they looking for?”

          “Nothing,” she settled onto the cushion beside him, “they just want to make sure we don't leave. I think they're waiting for something. Who knows what.”

          Corvo leaned back and worked his shoulder, rubbing it carefully. It still stung, but the wound had scabbed closed once more. Cecelia noticed as he winced, but turned politely away to watch the lamp instead.

          “How long have you been living here?” Corvo asked.

          “Just a few months. I stayed in the Old Port for a while. After... after everything that happened, I tried to get out of the city. Remember those City Watch checkpoints along the river? They were stopping people to see if they had the plague. I guess I looked sick.”

          Corvo turned to find a bitter expression creeping its way across her face. She gave a defensive shrug. Her hands worked, toying with a bit of loose fabric at the hem of her jacket. Corvo watched the fresh callouses on her palms.

          “They tried detaining all of us at once. A hundred people, maybe more. Everyone was so scared. Somebody must have jumped the barricade, because the Watch opened fire. We all ran.”

          She stared at the lamp, the sharp cast of the light making her look older than she was. Her eyes glistened. Corvo considered words of comfort, but held them in. He doubted anything he could say would soften the memory.

          “It was horrible. They just... gunned people down. They didn't care if we were sick or not. Most of us made it. We hid in the sewers, but by then we were trapped in the city. People needed somewhere to go,” she released a shaky breath, “so Piero and I helped them make it to the Flooded District. After that, we--”

          “Piero?” Corvo interrupted.

          “We ran into each other at the barricade,” she explained, “and we thought we'd be safer together.”

          Corvo sat upright so quickly that his shoulder burned.

          “You mean... he's here?”

          She blinked at him, green eyes wide, “Did I forget to say that before?”

          He reached out to take her by the arms, “Piero is here in Drapers Ward?”

          “Yes,” Cecelia said slowly, “Why?”

          Corvo felt a weight dissolve from around him. His heart leapt into his throat as he stared at Cecelia in disbelief. He let out a wild laugh and gave his friend a gentle shake, “Cecelia, I could kiss you.”

          She blushed, then glanced down with a self-conscious smile, “You'd... have to take that up with Piero.”

          “How far is it?” Corvo asked, words coming out in a breathless rush. He stood up hurriedly, pain forgotten and exhaustion pushed aside. He felt almost giddy. Piero would know what to do. Piero could _help_. The beginnings of hope, however vague, sent Corvo's pulse speeding. Cecelia regarded him as though she feared he'd gone mad.

          “Not very far,” she inclined her head, “but we should wait until the whalers are gone.”

          “We can't afford to wait,” he shifted anxiously, “I need to see Piero, as soon as possible. There are lives at stake.”

          Cecelia hesitated, taking in his urgent stance and searching eyes. Finally, she pushed off from the sofa and reached for her harpoon gun.

          “Alright,” she nodded, “I hope you can defend us out there.”

          He drew his sword, clicking it open. He turned the blade until it caught the lamplight and glittered menacingly. His hands flushed warm, mark glowing and fingers eager to kill. He had no mercy left for any whaler who dared get in their way. He would send each and every one screaming into the Void.

          Cecelia drew in a deep breath and blew out the light.

 


	13. Current

          Despite Corvo's itching sword hand, they managed by sheer luck to miss any whaler patrols. They could hear the assassins moving quietly in the next street, but were able to slip by in silence. As they traveled further into the eastern part of the district, Cecelia seemed to relax.

          “I should probably warn you,” she called over her shoulder as they walked along a white brick street, “he isn't very good with visitors.”

          Power service to the district had been cut months ago. The streets were pitch black. The clouds were thick, and moonlight was scarce. Cecelia was an indistinct shadow bobbing ahead, the dull gleam of the spearhead over her shoulder the closest thing to a light they had.

          As far as Corvo could tell, they were on a side street behind what had once been the most fashionable market in Dunwall. The central building was an open air promenade, shielded from the skies by a glass roof overhead. The shape of it rose ahead of them in the dark. A notion of recognition caused him to walk faster.

          “Wait,” he whispered, “isn't this Hatter territory?”

          “It was,” she said, and Corvo thought he heard a hint of amusement in her voice, “They moved to the other end of the district a few months ago. This place was deserted when we got here.”

          Corvo tried to remember what Slackjaw had said about his former haunt. The boss had spies in the Hatter ranks elsewhere, but Drapers had never seemed like a priority. Corvo wondered, with a smothered pang, how the Bottle Street Gang was holding up. The image of Slackjaw's shaking hand flitted through his mind. He pushed it aside.

          “We've been doing business with another gang around here,” Cecelia gestured toward the old shopping center, “I don't talk to them much, I just take their money and give them what they ordered.”

          “You two run a shop?”

          “Something like that. Piero doesn't like to sell his inventions, he thinks the Overseers could trace them back to us. We sell whatever the smugglers can bring in.”

          They entered the market, which offered a view of handsome wood-paneled shop fronts and fancifully engraved names. Electric signs high above hung dark and unreadable. Broken glass crunched underfoot, all that remained of the once proud atrium. Cecelia headed for an alcove between two flights of stairs. The clouds above parted just enough for Corvo to see a series of scorch marks on the floor, a gruesome halo around the cracked marble where an arc pylon had once stood.

          Cecelia walked up the vague outline of a metal door in the market's outer wall and extended a hand.

          “It's me,” she said to the wall, “I brought a friend.”

          “I would appreciate it,” came a crackling voice, tinny through a speakerbox but instantly recognizable, “if we could keep to the password system, it is imperative that this place remain secret and--”

          “Fish guts,” Cecelia cut him off.

          “That is correct. You said we had a visitor. Who, may I ask, is present? Tell them to speak for themselves.”

          “Please just let us in,” she sighed.

          “Security is paramount,” Piero said deliberately, followed by a fuzzy scratching sound as he breathed too close to the microphone, “if we let our guard down, we might find ourselves under attack from within. One cannot be too careful.”

          Cecelia hesitated, withdrawing her hand, “He... he's like this sometimes. Just give him a few minutes.”

          Corvo took a step forward, “Should I...?”

          “You could try,” she shifted, biting her nail in consideration, “He might not remember you.”

          A jolt of panic stilled Corvo's progress, “Is he ill?”

          “No. I mean, he doesn't have the plague. It's his mind.”

          Corvo moved past her and pressed the buzzer, “Piero, it's Corvo.”

          There was a pause, and it stretched on so long that Cecelia laid a hand on Corvo's arm in comfort. Then, with a loud crack from the speaker, Piero's voice rang out.

          “Corvo! Corvo, my friend, come in!”

          A buzzing sound accompanied a clink as the door unlocked. Cecelia pushed it open, holding it for Corvo. He stepped through, finding himself in a tight alleyway. Cecelia led the way to a corner where the path descended into a flight of stairs. Corvo stopped just above the first step, utterly distracted by the sight ahead.

          He was standing in the outer yard of the old Hatter base at the textile mill. The enormous brick factory rose into the night sky, illuminated by several floodlights pointed at the exterior. An aging billboard advertising _Fine Hats for Sale_ was peeling and sun-faded. What truly unnerved him, however, was the striking evidence of Piero's paranoia. A wall of light, rigged on either side with tripwires, blocked the main entrance. Corvo spotted what looked like springrazor traps lining the edges of every boarded window. An oversized arc pylon, not unlike the one Piero had constructed at the Hound Pits, sparked and glowed between the alley and the mill. A faint light against the sky suggested another pylon sat atop the roof.

          “Corvo!” came an excited cry, and he turned to see Piero moving toward him. Corvo was alarmed to see the inventor limping heavily, leaning on a cane for support.

          “Piero,” Corvo moved forward to meet him, shooting only a brief glance at the arc pylon beyond, “are you alright?”

          “I am perfectly well,” Piero waved the cane loosely as he reached the landing, “Nothing time cannot heal. Corvo, it is wonderful to see you alive. I feared we might never meet again.”

          “Likewise,” Corvo accepted Piero's extended hand, shaking it warmly as he looked over his friend with increasing concern.

          Piero Joplin was gaunt, with dark circles pulling the skin beneath his eyes. His hair was thinning and unkempt, flat on one side where he'd slept on it. His clothes looked threadbare, and his eyes were darting nervously over Corvo's face.

          “I know what you're thinking,” Piero raised a hand, one finger pointed heavenward, “Why would he choose the textile mill? Because, my friend, it is a gold mine. Reusable machinery, plenty of space, and best of all, a functional laboratory in the attic. I can't believe they abandoned this place, all because of a little toxic gas. A week's cleanup and you can hardly smell the fumes when it rains.”

          “Wh--”

          “Of course,” Piero continued, picking up speed, “you're not here to learn about me. I'm sure you have plenty of whispers from the Void to carry out. Sharp tools to put to use. Worry not, we can discuss it all over tea. Ah, I see night has fallen. Time is slippery these days. Have you been out for a swim, Corvo? I smell river water, my, how the senses take one back.”

          “I...” Corvo made an effort to process what he'd just heard.

          “Piero,” Cecelia took the man gently by the arm, “Let's go shut off the security system so Corvo can come in.”

          “Ah. Yes,” Piero allowed himself to be guided. The two of them descended the steps and entered a small hut a few yards away. After a moment's delay, there was a rush of noise followed by a whine as the various arc devices powered down simultaneously. Corvo trotted down the stairs, meeting Piero and Cecelia halfway across the open yard.

          “Expecting an invasion?” Corvo asked, half-joking.

          Piero stared at him, leaning hard on his cane and tilting his head to see over the rims of his glasses, “We must always expect the flood. But there is time now, and I suspect we have much to discuss.”

          Corvo, taken aback, glanced from Piero's severe expression to Cecelia, who shot him a sympathetic look.

          “We do,” Corvo admitted, “I need your help.”

          “Of course,” Piero's gaze was sharp, “the streets run red, and we are reunited. Just like old times, Corvo? It seems we are fated, after all.”

          “Why don't we go inside?” Cecelia interrupted, her voice just a little too high.

          “Excellent idea,” Piero turned to her, demeanor pleasant once more. His hand drifted toward her, and she accepted it with a thin smile. They made their way through the front entrance, along the edges of a long-dry canal. Corvo followed, stepping inside the calm hush of the factory, where the great waterwheel stood unmoving and rusting.

 

          Cecelia and Piero had clearly been hard at work making the factory as comfortable as possible. The cold brick shell had been transformed into a manor of sorts, bedrooms and living spaces improvised around the industrial machinery. Corvo was taken to the uppermost floor of the building, where the attic had been converted into a somewhat familiar sight.

          Piero had constructed a workshop, with all sorts of laboratory tools and unfinished devices scattered across the floor. Glass bottles filled with unrecognizable liquids were arranged on shelves. Rat lights hung from the ceiling, re-purposed into a makeshift chandelier. Blackboards covered in scribblings lined the walls. Corvo glanced them over and saw the Outsider's mark buried amongst the illegible writing. Piero hobbled over to a plush chair and eased himself into the leather. Cecelia moved to stand at his side, one hand on the back of the chair.

          “So, my friend,” Piero said, laying his cane across his knees, “what brings you to our humble corner of Drapers? Apart from the current.”

          The inventor watched Corvo with a weary readiness. He looked like a man who'd grown accustomed to bad news. In the clearer light of the workshop, Corvo could see just how haggard Piero really was. The dark circles beneath his eyes had begun to bruise and bloat. His lips were cracked and dry, his hands covered in scabs. He seemed smaller than Corvo remembered him, cowed and wary. Whatever Piero had lived through, it had changed him profoundly.

          “The plague,” Corvo said flatly, and Piero closed his eyes.

          “Ah,” he pulled off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I should have guessed.”

          “I need a cure.”

          Piero gave a wry smile, “As do we all.”

          “This is urgent,” Corvo said, then paused, unsure how to explain. Piero stared at his own knees, apparently lost in thought. Behind him, Cecelia leaned back against the desk and crossed her arms. She watched Corvo appraisingly, her eyes cautious but concerned.

          “Did something happen?” she asked.

          Corvo took a moment to compose his response, breathing in the smells of whale oil and wood smoke, “The whalers hit Bottle Street. They brought the plague with them. If we don't cure it at the distillery, it'll spread.”

          “Bottle Street...” Cecelia echoed, the faintest hint of accusation sliding beneath her words, “Is that where you've been?”

          He met her gaze and nodded. She glanced down at the floorboards. Her mouth twisted into a faint frown but she said nothing, instead drawing in a long breath through her nose. Her disappointment was evident enough. Corvo suppressed a weak flare of guilt.

          “Corvo,” Piero said, replacing his glasses, “I am flattered that you think me capable of stopping the plague, but I'm afraid you've been sent on a fool's errand. I could no sooner stop the tide.”

          “Sokolov thought it could be done,” Corvo said without thinking, “he was working on a new elixir.”

          Piero let out a humming laugh which rang bitter, “And yet, you have come to me. I'm surprised you bothered. Surely Sokolov has better resources, test subjects... ideas. I assume you spoke to him recently? I haven't heard a word from him in months.”

          Corvo's distant guilt grew heavy and solid as he found himself searching for words once more. The truth-- the freezing waves, the last glimpse of Sokolov's horrified face-- faltered at the tip of his tongue. Piero's expression was open and trusting, and Corvo wrestled with his conscience before simply saying, “I washed ashore here, and I don't have much time.”

          “Of course. None of us do,” Piero replied.

          “You used to talk about fighting the plague,” Corvo continued eagerly, “Your remedy was--”

          Piero gave a short shake of his head, “My remedy was a temporary measure, and a weak one at that. It merely prevented the infection, treated the symptoms. I have tried to engineer a real cure, to understand the nature of the beast, but...”

          He waved agitatedly to the surrounding blackboards, “It would take a lifetime to fully comprehend the plague's mutability, let alone figure out how to stop it. Even then, prevention would be the smartest course of action. A _cure_... a cure would take a miracle.”

          “Sokolov believes it can be done,” said Corvo, despite an increasing feeling that he was out of his depth.

          “Sokolov also believes he can chart the cosmos and summon the Outsider himself,” Piero snapped, and for a brief moment his features were sharp and lucid, “The man is as deluded as he is brilliant.”

          “He was willing to try.”

          Piero's eyes gleamed behind their lenses, catching the muted light. He stared at Corvo for a long moment, searching his face. After an extended pause, he turned toward a chalkboard and considered the Outsider's mark.

          “It is simply impossible,” Piero muttered, “It cannot be done _at all,_ let alone without a recent strain to work from.”

          “I was exposed,” Corvo said desperately, “You could use my blood.”

          “Corvo, if you were susceptible to the plague, we would all have died at the Hound Pits. No, I'd need an active case to observe, and believe me when I say I have observed many. They all die, regardless of my intervention, or Sokolov's, or anyone's.”

          Corvo allowed the edge of frustration to hone his voice, “They're dying as we speak.”

          “And why should that concern you now?” Piero leaned forward, hands digging into the arms of his chair, “Over a year's worth of bodies pile in the streets, months of tireless work by the greatest minds of the age, and you, in the middle of the chaos, cutting a bloody streak through Dunwall. You never minded the plague before. You were all much more interested in selling death than preventing it.”

          His voice was even and self-assured, “I have tried. I have seen _hundreds_ of lost causes. The sewers are full of weepers, and they owe their fate to me.”

          “Piero--” Cecelia murmured, but he ignored her.

          “And now,” his hand made an enthusiastic gesture in Corvo's direction, “it is finally _your_ people who are sick. Well, I can do nothing for them. They'll go the same way as everyone else. It will be a heretic's death for Dunwall, in the end.”

          Piero paused for emphasis, and Corvo took a steadying breath. He worked his jaw, unclenching his teeth. Piero's accusations, however true, stung fiercely, and Corvo could not help feeling somewhat betrayed. He was certain they had been on better terms when they'd last spoken. He resigned himself to the tacit apology of silence. He could hardly afford to start an argument now.

          “I could bring you to the distillery,” he said slowly, “You could at least--”

          “No. I will not. Not again,” Piero's eyes grew unfocused as he drew back, pressing himself into the back of the chair, “I know what I am, Corvo. I am a failure. A fraud. Now let me be.”

          Corvo started forward, about to protest, but he was quickly blocked by Cecelia. She moved to stand in front of Piero, holding up a slender hand before Corvo's chest.

          “Corvo, why don't we go downstairs,” she said instructively, “We can all talk more after we've calmed down.”

          He glared at her until he recognized the protective set of her shoulders. His anger fell away immediately. Cecelia's face was a warning, fearful but firm. She had angled herself away from Piero, so only Corvo could see the pleading urgency in her eyes. She was all but begging him to back down.

          “Of course,” he breathed, glancing briefly at Piero. The man was hunched over in his chair, one hand wrapped over his mouth and the other balled into a fist. Corvo was struck with the realization that he had missed something vital.

          “Good,” Cecelia's hand was a soft pressure on his arm, “why don't we...?”

          She pulled him toward the door and out of the room. Behind them, soft sounds filled the workshop as Piero began mumbling to himself. As they descended the stairs, the muffled voice above cracked and broke. Cecelia marched unwaveringly forward, the tilt of her head the only sign of strain.

 

          “He isn't usually so blunt,” Cecelia said as she hung a kettle over the fire.

          “What happened to him?” Corvo asked her, tossing another log into the flames. She cleared her throat self-consciously and tucked her hair behind her ear, fingers playing distractedly over the ends of red fringe.

          They stood in a guest room in the old storage building, which had been offered to Corvo for as long as he needed it. Fire crackled in the small hearth, casting warm light over the salvage lining the walls. There were two beds, plain metal frames made up in clean sheets which looked suspiciously like unused shrouds. Bolts of uncut cloth stood against the far wall, beneath a boarded-over skylight. Tables and chairs made the place inviting, and there was even a thick woven rug in front of the fire. It would all have been fairly comforting were it not for the nervous knot cramping Corvo's stomach.

          “I was going to tell you earlier,” Cecelia admitted, pacing around the rug to sit on one of the beds. She leaned her elbows on her knees, folding her hands.

          “Does it have to do with you escaping the Watch?” Corvo looked on as she fidgeted, rocking from side to side as she settled onto the bed.

          “Yes,” she remained focused on her hands, “It's about those people we saved, when we brought everyone into the sewers. We set up a shelter down there, in the tunnels just south of the Old Port. Right beneath the Flooded District. Made a little home for ourselves there.”

          Corvo shifted his weight as a familiar foreboding washed over him.

          “It was... a real home, for a while,” she chewed her lip, watching the fire, “There were about seventy of us, at first. We picked up other survivors from the nearby districts. We all had to depend on each other. It was good for Piero, living down there. He helped build things, invented these brilliant contraptions to make life easier for us.”

          She fell silent, lost in the memory. Corvo listened to the spitting flames and waited until it became clear Cecelia was deep in her own mind.

          “How did the plague get in?” he asked softly.

          “Rats,” she started a little, wiping her eyes, “They came in through a loose wall. Piero tried to quarantine people, but underground... I know this sounds harsh, but Piero always thought of the plague like it was something that happened to other people. He thought it was a scientific puzzle he could solve. I don't think he'd ever felt so helpless.”

          Corvo allowed her a long moment to collect herself, “Did anyone survive?”

          She sat up a little straighter, “I did. Piero did. That's when he got hurt.”

          “And you started taking care of him.”

          Cecelia nodded, “He was having all these awful nightmares, barely slept at all. We would run, then we'd have to hide for hours waiting for the weepers to move on. The children were the worst. You... you haven't really seen the plague until it's someone you care about bleeding from the eyes.”

          “So Piero's afraid he'll fail again?” Corvo asked around a suddenly tight throat.

          Cecelia opened her mouth to reply, but hesitated. She lifted a hand to her face, pressing her knuckles to her lips. She blinked at Corvo, apparently trying to decide how to answer him. Eventually, she stood up and walked over to the fireplace.

          “Piero is afraid,” she leaned over the fire, warming her hands, “of what failing again would mean to him. If he's right... if there really is no cure... I don't think he could live with that.”

          “He's living with it right now,” Corvo muttered, “If we lose Bottle Street, we could lose the whole city.”

          “I know,” Cecelia scuffed a boot against an uneven brick of the hearth. She glanced at him, firelight turning half her face bright and golden.

          “There's someone you don't want to lose, isn't there?” she asked, and Corvo found himself unable to meet her gaze. He stared into the flames instead. The scents and sounds of the distillery fluttered through his mind. He forced them away, a little surprised at himself for thinking of them at all.

          “I understand,” Cecelia continued, voice falling soft, “It's the same for me. We've both lost a lot, Corvo. I don't want make things worse for you, but... this is all I have.”

          Her hand made a short arc toward the surrounding room, “I can't stop the Overseers, or the whalers, or the plague. But I can protect Piero. That's all I'm trying to do.”

          Corvo closed his eyes and nodded slowly, watching the ghosts of the fire as they danced against his eyelids. He couldn't begrudge her that. They stood in place for some time. The room was silent but for the crack of the fire until the kettle began to whistle. Cecelia retrieved a thick leather glove from a nearby table and hefted the oversized pot from the hook. She set it down on the bricks with a clink.

          “You should clean yourself up,” She said, breaking the hush, “you're covered in blood.”

          Corvo glanced down at himself to find that his clothes, still faintly damp from the river, were stained almost totally red-brown.

          “Ah.”

          “You smell like a slaughterhouse,” Cecelia shot him a brief, teasing smile as she pulled a basin out from under a dresser, “Take your time. It always takes Piero a while to settle down at night. He likes to check the security system a few times before turning in.”

          Corvo accepted the basin, hands heavy as the day caught up with him. He placed it beside the kettle, eyeing the clean bed.

          “Thank you.”

          “It's no trouble,” she paused at the door, “and I'll talk to Piero.”

          He glanced at her, surprised.

          “It's the least I can do for you,” she said firmly, “It's his decision, but I'll try.”

          “Thank you,” he said again, more emphatically.

          She gave him another weak smile and slipped through the doorway, footsteps fading away into the mill.

          After she had gone, Corvo unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it carefully away from his shoulder and tossing it to the ground. He stepped out of his boots and set them near the fire. The pants he dumped unceremoniously atop the shirt. He was soaked down to his underthings, but he was not about to remove those in a room with no door.

          He ran a hand down his chest, and his fingers left lines in the grime on his skin. He grimaced, taking up the kettle and pouring hot water into the basin. He searched through a few drawers, eventually discovering a rough brush and deciding it would do.

          As he worked to scrub himself clean, he allowed his mind to wander. His thoughts strayed to the distillery. He wondered how long the Bottle Street Boys would hold out. Even if Piero could be convinced, even if he  _could_ come up with a cure, it would do the gang no good unless Corvo made it back across the river in time. None of it seemed likely to happen. He moved the brush absentmindedly over his chest, then winced as he scraped the edge of the scabbing mess in his shoulder. As he positioned the bristles away from the wound, an image of the desk in the distillery office pulled itself unbidden from his memories.

          That was strange. He had no reason to think about the desk, especially when there was so much else to think of. And yet, there it was, startlingly present in his head. His imagination conjured the rest of the scene: the smoky air, the smell of cigars, the grain of the wood beneath Slackjaw's steady hands.

          Corvo huffed, flicking dirty water from the brush. There were a hundred other things to do, he reminded himself, before he could begin to worry about Slackjaw. But the harder Corvo attempted to drive the thought away, the more he found himself fixated. The vision was oddly mesmerizing. The strong, tanned hands reaching idly for a bottle. Their warm grip on his shoulder. Slackjaw's thumb pressing into Corvo's ruined skin and drawing blood. The same hands dragging down Corvo's throat, grasping his shirt. Twisting into his hair and--

          “No,” he muttered aloud, face flushing as he realized where his exhausted mind was headed. He lifted the kettle and splashed hot water over the brush, eager to give his hands something to do. That was the absolute last thing he needed, he chided himself. Things were already muddled enough between them without Corvo confusing Slackjaw's desires for his own. He rubbed his eyes, allowing himself a tired sigh. Water rolled down his face. He could only imagine what the Outsider would say.

          With sudden sharpness, a feeling of dissonance overwhelmed him. Corvo nearly dropped the brush in shock. An immediate sense of emptiness, of bereavement, struck him so severely it sent a wave of nausea through him. He forced himself to take a breath, battling back the consuming notion that something was _very_ wrong.

          He could not feel the Outsider's presence.

          He held out his hand and found the mark unchanged. Since he had received it, the deity had been a constant, always just out of reach, an eternal hum at the base of Corvo's skull. Now there was a cold silence in his place, accompanied by an almost physical absence.

          Tentatively, Corvo extended his hand toward a chest of drawers across the room. The mark glowed and sparked, faithful as ever, and a breath later he sat crouched atop the dresser. An abrupt noise of confusion escaped his lips as he fell sideways off the now-soaking furniture. He stumbled to his feet, dripping wet and more than a little embarrassed. He glanced toward the door. He was mercifully alone.

          He looked down at the mark in bewilderment. He had barely so much as thought of the dresser before landing on top of it. It usually took ten times that effort to blink anywhere. As he watched his hand, the mark seemed to respond to his gaze. The spiking lines turned a shade so dark it gave the illusion of depth, like a hole punched through Corvo's skin. A fleeting glimmer of light passed through the blackness, jagged as the crack of electricity. He tilted his hand and the mark glistened like oil. He ran his finger over it, not entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating, but the mark did not react.

          Corvo allowed himself a few seconds of building fear before raising his hand and blinking back to the basin. Once more, he moved without effort. He stood there, rattled, until the intense feeling ebbed away. If this was the Outsider's will, there was little Corvo could do about it. His stomach slowly untwisted. He stared at the far wall, and for a moment his mind went utterly blank.

          He shuddered, and as he lifted his hands to warm himself, he realized the fire had gone out. He turned in place, looking sluggishly around the room. The lamps had all burned down to a low wick, scarcely giving off light. His skin was cold, his flesh raised in the chilled night air. The stone floor was like ice against his bare feet. High above, the moon shone through the cracks in the wooden ceiling.

          “What--” Corvo turned a little faster, his sense of time finally catching up. It was easily midnight. His shoulder stung as he began to shiver. He tried vainly to account for the last several hours. He had been looking at the mark, and then... he could not remember what had happened after that. No amount of concentration brought back the missing time. It was as if he had simply ceased to exist for hours. The only incongruity was that his skin, formerly covered in river silt and whaler blood, was now completely clean.

          He turned his hands over, finding them thoroughly scrubbed. He ran one through his hair, and it slid through the wet locks without any resistance. The basin below was filled with water. He found he was too mystified to be afraid. He had apparently bathed, cleaned his hair, and rinsed himself off without noticing any of it. That was on top of the considerable hole in his memory.

          A shaky breath of high-pitched laughter escaped his lips. He spent a minute trying to decide the best course of action. Then he sidestepped the basin, crossed the dark room, and climbed into the closest bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, classwork has been brutal. We're back on track now!
> 
> Tell me your conspiracy theories in the comments. What is the Outsider up to, I wonder?


	14. Swifter Tides

_The seagrass shone silver in the moonlight, waving and bowing up the shallow hill. A dirt path twined up to a rocky outcropping where it met the edge of a cliff. The towering coastline was quiet, standing sentinel over the sea. The tide hissed and roared far below. The wind stirred through distant rushes, carrying the tang of salt._

_Corvo could not remember having been here before, but his feet knew the well-traveled path. He moved toward the ledge, each step slow and deliberate. He was exhausted, but he could not recall why._

_At the end of the path, where the cliffside hung like an open maw, a small figure stood. A child, silhouetted against the star-filled sky and shaking in the cold. Corvo reached out his hand, and lifting his arm seemed to take an age. He stumbled forward._

_The child, a smudge of dark hair draped in fine fabrics, turned its head ever so slightly.The thin sliver of its face was pale in the darkness._

_Corvo tried to speak, but his throat worked in vain. A faint flicker of orange light gleamed against the grass, emanating from somewhere far behind him. He could not bring himself to turn, instead watching as the child faced the sea once more. Voices echoed up the hill, their distant tones chanting in unison._

_The small frame ahead lifted one hand in invitation, or perhaps warning, and the sky beyond seemed to rush forward. Starry darkness flooded over the cliff, and the crash of the tide grew thunderous as all light vanished but the glint of the moon on the water. Then it too was snuffed out, and all was blackness._

 

Corvo started awake to the blaring shriek of an alarm siren. The sound pierced the night at close intervals, amplified by the quiet. He threw off the blankets and reached blindly for his sword, stumbling through the dark room and taking off at a run.

As he moved into the hallway he nearly collided with Cecelia, who caught him by the arm and pulled him to a stop. Her face was a mask of focus, illuminated by the nearby wall of light. She glanced over Corvo, noting his state of undress, then nodded toward the side entrance. He readied his sword and stepped in front of her, catching sight of a knife in her hand out of the corner of his eye.

They made their way across the front hall in silence, creeping past the decaying waterwheel as the alarm bleated endlessly over the yard. Corvo checked each doorway as they passed, slipping into the dark vision of the Void. There were no signs of life throughout the building. Nothing else so much as breathed in the old mill.

Corvo stopped just inside the side entrance, glancing through the walls to make sure nothing but the odd rat was wandering the yard and the alley. He turned to Cecelia.

“Where's Piero?” he asked under his breath.

She had no answer but a soft, panicked gasp. Corvo counted down with several successive bobs of his head, then threw the door open. He edged around the frame, Cecelia moving close behind him. They made slow progress across the open yard, cutting a diagonal line to the security hut. As they drew closer, Corvo recognized Piero's glimmering outline through the brick. He was barely upright on one knee, sagging in front of the window and clinging to the table before him.

Corvo kicked in the hut door, sending it crashing open. Piero turned toward them, face underlit by the glow of the control panel. The inventor's lips moved, but his voice was drowned out by the alarm. He held up a finger, indicating they should wait, and dragged himself up until he could reach the switchboard. Cecelia slipped past Corvo and wrapped an arm around Piero's middle, propping him up. He had evidently lost his cane somewhere.

Piero's fingers twisted over the controls, and the alarm cut off mid-sound with an abrupt chirp. Cecelia set down her knife on the countertop, bracing Piero with both hands. Corvo stepped swiftly forward and ducked under Piero's other arm, pulling the man toward him until Piero could balance on his good leg.

“Ah, thank you,” Piero muttered, voice tight with pain, “I seem to have gotten ahead of myself.”

“What tripped the alarm?” Cecelia asked hurriedly.

“Who knows,” Piero grunted as he adjusted his grip on Corvo's shoulders, “but I suspect-- they are long gone.”

“Whalers?” Corvo murmured.

“Most likely,” came the stunted reply.

There was a metallic scrape as Cecelia dragged over an old chair. Corvo eased Piero down, supporting his weight as the scientist hissed in pain. Cecelia skirted around the chair to kneel beside him. She placed a firm hand on Piero's arm, which he covered with his own.

Corvo was about to excuse himself to check the perimeter when a flash of movement caught his eye. He whirled, vision adjusting in a shudder of grey light. He looked up just in time to see the flicker of a body blinking up the side of the mill. Without a word, he spun on his heel and charged out into the yard. He ran toward the building, watching as the whaler darted rapidly from window to window.

There was a loud crackle of electricity, and suddenly the air felt charged. Corvo's hair stood on end as a series of buzzing whirs sounded from above him. The mill shook with the telltale rumble of Piero's signature arc pylon before a bright shockwave rattled through the entire building. Corvo raised a hand to shield his eyes, and had a brief glimpse of the whaler, just outside the pylon's reach, leaping to safety atop the outer wall.

“And that,” came Piero's voice, and Corvo turned to see him limping forward with Cecelia in his wake, “is why we have the security system, to answer a question you asked yesterday.”

He had found a plank of wood and was using it as a makeshift crutch. Cecelia moved wordlessly to his side, offering her shoulder in support. The inventor stared past her, watching Corvo with rapt attention.

“Mysteries abound,” Piero said evenly, “The whalers have left us a message.”

He hobbled over to Corvo and pointed dramatically with the wooden plank. Corvo followed the motion, turning to look at the front face of the factory. Just beside the main entryway, leaning against the bricks, sat a small cloth-wrapped package. There was a note pinned to it.

Corvo strode over to the little bundle and knelt down. The words on the cloth were written in messy, hasty letters:

_Corvo. Watch yourself. --An Old Friend_

Bewildered, Corvo lifted the package. It was fairly light. He pulled off the string and unwrapped the cloth. A shiver of recognition cooled his skin.

Nestled in the plain fabric, a familiar face stared back at him. His mask, battered but whole, gleamed as it caught the moonlight. Wrapped inside it was a small snap case, bound in leather and shaped like a book. It smelled vaguely of salt. Corvo drew in a sharp breath, his hand shaking as he opened the case. Inside sat two perfect rows of glass vials, the blood within them still crimson and fluid.

 

“Please,” Corvo leaned on a table, staring across the array of bottles and jars to where Piero was pacing the floor, “just take a look at them.”

Piero rounded on him, lips tight with anger, “Corvo, I _am_ looking at them, and what I am seeing is cause for extreme concern.”

As soon as he'd learned what the samples contained, Piero had snatched up the leather case and moved agitatedly up the stairs, muttering furiously the whole way. Corvo and Cecelia had followed at a slight distance, stopping only to fetch a pair of trousers for Corvo's benefit. They now stood on either side of a long worktable. The lamp above gave the room an eerie blue glow in the darkness, casting them all in shadow. Piero was visibly shaken, his hand traveling erratically in the air before him. He had retrieved his cane, and leaned on it as he changed directions once more.

“I thought you had more faith in my intellectual capacity,” Piero's gaze darted between Corvo and Cecelia, “I see now that you take me for a fool.”

Corvo rubbed his forehead anxiously, “I'm only asking you to--”

“You are only asking me to ignore the obvious,” the scientist gestured toward the desk, where the snap case sat open and waiting, “You expect me to believe these were stolen.”

“They were,” Corvo said carefully, avoiding an outright lie, “They must have been.”

Piero paused to award him an expression dripping with disdain, “Corvo, let us be precise. Tell me _exactly_ how naive you think I am.”

“Piero,” Cecelia said flatly, “I don't think you're being fair.”

“Fair? I am presented with Anton Sokolov's work, his life's work, delivered by killers into the hands of Dunwall's most notorious assassin. Considering the circumstances, I would say I am being more than fair.”

The glare he leveled at Corvo was so icy that Corvo pushed off from the table and stood up straight.

“What are you implying?” Corvo asked, and though he tried to keep his voice even, the words came out dark and low.

“I do not believe for one moment that Sokolov would part with those samples willingly. If they are what you say they are, I have every confidence that Sokolov would guard them with his life. And now, judging by the look on your face, I am certain that he did.”

Corvo drew in a steadying breath through his nose as Cecelia jerked upright in shock. She turned to him, eyes wide and unbelieving. He avoided her stare, instead watching Piero. The inventor's face was barely composed, his hand shaking with anger as it ran over his thinning hair.

“Tell me one thing,” Piero huffed, “Tell me how it happened.”

“Did...” Cecelia asked quietly, “Corvo, please be honest, did you...?”

Corvo finally met her gaze, returning her critical expression, “Did I kill Sokolov? Is that what you're asking?”

“Yes,” Piero answered bluntly, but Cecelia shook her head.

“I don't know,” she admitted, crossing her arms, “Maybe. All this business with the whalers... they showed up right before you did. Now they're leaving you gifts. I-- I don't know, Corvo, you said you were working for the Bottle Street Gang, and now this.”

“I didn't kill him,” Corvo interrupted before she could continue.

“Then who did?” Piero demanded.

“No one,” Corvo thought of the Outsider's taunting smile and set his jaw against an accompanying stab of anger, “No one killed him, he drowned. We were both on the river during the storm.”

There was a silent beat as the words settled. Cecelia shifted her weight and pulled her crossed arms closer to her chest, shooting an inquisitive glance at Piero. The scientist seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, staring listlessly into the center of the room.

“Why lie?” Cecelia finally asked.

Corvo released a sigh as the tension in the room eased somewhat, “I didn't intend to. It... seemed like the wrong time to mention it.”

Piero turned away then, reaching for the edge of the desk and leaning over the samples as he tried and failed to control his panicked breathing. He hunched over the little case, laying a hand over it and tracing the edges of the glass vials.

“I'm sorry,” Corvo murmured.

“You're claiming,” Piero muttered at the desk, his voice cracking, “that the whalers pulled him from the river with these intact, and brought them here.”

The heaviness of his tone pulled at Corvo's chest. He cleared his throat.

“They must need a cure,” Corvo ventured, “they infected the men at the distillery, but it's possible they didn't know they were sick.”

Piero let out a weak, humorless laugh, “Unlikely. Those affected by the new strains show symptoms within days. They'd have known almost immediately.”

Corvo slipped momentarily into total distraction as Slackjaw's voice pulled itself free from his memory and sounded anew: _Maybe I woke up with sore lungs._

“I find the scenario you've described implausible at best,” Piero continued, “How do you propose the whalers retrieved this, in your version of events? Did they scour the entire Wrenhaven?”

"I don't know how they found it," Corvo said through his teeth, "I would rather slit my own throat than work for Daud."

“And that?” Piero turned, jabbing a hand in the direction of Corvo's mask where it lay on the table, “What possible explanation puts my work in the hands of whalers?”

Unable to reply, Corvo glanced down. His silence was damning, but he found he had nothing to say that Piero would believe. The more he considered the truth, the more absurd it sounded, even to him. He could not reconcile the attack on the distillery with the delivery of Sokolov's samples. Why should the whalers want to help cure the plague, after actively spreading it?

Then there was the matter of the note, pinned haphazardly to the package. The handwriting was unmistakable. Corvo had seen it before, scrawled through journals and across maps in the Chamber of Commerce. It was Daud's. An old friend indeed, and one with no reason to come to Corvo's aid. As he turned the idea over, Corvo felt certain he was missing something important. There was a piece of the puzzle he had failed to notice.

“Frankly, Corvo,” Piero let out a terse noise of discontent, “I don't believe you, or your story about Bottle Street. But I suppose I have little say in the matter. You could kill me in a heartbeat, if you so chose.”

“Piero,” Cecelia said cautiously, “Corvo didn't know you were here. And he was fighting the whalers when I found him.”

“Of course,” Piero drew each word out with measured sarcasm.

“Look,” Corvo said sharply, “whether you believe me or not, there are people who need that cure. Innocent people, not just street gangs.”

Piero regarded him with an openly hostile look of evaluation, as if Corvo's plea for help might be a ruse. After a pause, he turned to face a blackboard, rubbing the back of his neck in thought as he looked over the smudged chalk.

“And Sokolov believed it could be done,” Piero said.

“Yes,” Corvo leaned forward in earnest, “He was willing to bet his life. He was there, at the distillery. He was exposed.”

Piero stiffened marginally, mouth working into a skeptical frown. He brushed a hand across his lips, apparently considering his options, before sitting heavily down in the chair at the desk. He looked to the samples.

“Out,” he said simply, “both of you, please.”

 

Corvo made his way back to the guest room. Cecelia did not say a word to him, but laid a hand briefly against his arm in passing. For some time, he lingered beside the cold hearth, staring at the spent coals within. Eventually he returned to bed, mind swirling and limbs tight with anxiety. He tossed fitfully. By the time sleep finally came for him, it was almost dawn.

In the late morning he awoke to the gentle sound of nearby footsteps, and the sensation of the cot sagging as Cecelia sat down beside him. He pulled himself up to find her pale and drawn, a grave uncertainty etched across her face.

“I want to believe you,” she whispered.

He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, thoughts sluggishly returning from sleep. He drew his legs up under the thin blanket, resting his elbows on his knees. His arm gave a dull twinge.

“It doesn't make much difference to me,” Cecelia continued, “Sokolov, I mean. I didn't know him very well. But Piero thought of him as a friend. We're all in short supply of friends these days.”

Corvo swallowed against a dry throat, “I should have said something. But Piero seemed...”

“Broken?” She turned, and he looked into her eyes to find their green depths glazed over. She nodded slowly, shrugging the tension out of her shoulders. The movement was a little too fluid, too practiced, and Corvo thought he could see the corners of her mouth threatening to turn down.

“Well, he is,” she glanced away, “I don't think all this is helping him any. Maybe you should leave the lies to Martin.”

There was a stinging barb hidden in the way she said the name, an accusation months old but still sharp. Corvo rubbed sleep from his eyes with a tired sigh. He wasn't sure he deserved the comparison.

“Are you really working for the Bottle Street Gang?” Cecelia asked, her voice so low it rang flat in the cold morning air.

Corvo nodded without looking at her.

She let out a breath of incredulous laughter, “I'm not sure that's much better. They're all killers and thieves.”

“They're kids,” Corvo corrected her in a soft tone, leaning his head against his hand, “Most of them are young and scared, and need a place to live.”

“And the rest of them?”

“Killers and thieves,” he admitted resignedly, unable to disguise a slight hint of bitterness.

Cecelia looked as though she expected him to continue, and when he failed to do so, she turned her face toward the opposite wall.

“I'm not in a position to judge you, Corvo,” she finally said, “we do business with the other gangs. We take their money, trade for their food. We hear rumors about Bottle Street sometimes. I just don't understand...”

“Nobody left in this city has clean hands,” Corvo suppressed a flare of frustration, “but those killers and thieves supplied all of Dunwall with elixir for a year. They're holding the line at Clavering. I'd rather stand by criminals than men like Martin or Daud.”

She considered this for a long while, staring down at the blanket between them. Eventually, she gave a slow nod.

“Just be careful,” she said, “It seems like everything is getting worse.”

Corvo was about to reply when a loud crash sounded from far above them, echoing throughout the mill. Cecelia leapt to her feet, darting for the stairs, and Corvo rushed after her. They ran side by side to the attic, breathless by the time Cecelia grasped the knob of the workshop door and threw it open.

Piero did not turn to look at them, instead busying himself with a table on the other end of the room. The bench closest to Cecelia had been overturned, its contents spilled across the floor. A chalkboard on wheels had been pushed up against it. Papers and empty glass containers littered the ground, along with machine parts and clothing. Cecelia slid a heavy iron gear out of the way with her foot.

“Piero?” she panted, “What happened?”

“I needed the space,” he called, glancing briefly toward the door.

Cecelia edged around the bench, pulling the door shut and leaning toward Corvo.

“He never came downstairs,” she muttered, “I don't think he slept.”

Corvo nodded, and they moved across the cluttered attic to stand near Piero. The inventor was clearly absorbed in his work. Various flasks on the worktable bubbled over flames, books were scattered around Piero's feet, and several of the small vials from Sokolov's carry case were suspended over a clocklike device which glowed like a rat light. Corvo was so distracted by the state of the lab that he had to look twice when he finally cast his eyes over Piero.

“Look at this,” Piero beckoned to Cecelia, whose face had gone white, “the results of Sokolov's work.”

Cecelia stood in place, so Piero lowered himself over the microscope on the desk. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing an aged scar above his wrist and a smudge of blood up the inside of his arm. His clothing was disheveled, and smeared with unidentifiable substances. Corvo wondered how he'd made such a mess in only a few hours.

“It is brilliant,” Piero let out a frantic laugh, “Simple. Simple, how did I never...?”

He pulled back, looking excitedly to Cecelia, “It is a tragedy that he died before seeing this, it is easily his greatest contribution to natural philosophy-- to the world, I believe.”

Corvo took a halting step forward, “You mean-- it worked? The cure?”

Piero gave him a sidelong look of wild abandon. The blue haze from the overhead light glinted from his glasses and exaggerated his features as he shot Corvo a strange, furtive smile.

"Cure? We are far beyond a cure, my friend, no. This is something much, much better. This is control.”

 


	15. Crest

          Piero's words hung like a weight above them. The heavy air of the lab was silent but for the trickle of water and the hiss of boiling liquid. A thin plume of steam wafted into the open space.

          “What?” Corvo asked hollowly, “What do you mean, control?”

          “The _vision_ of it,” Piero said to no one in particular, scratching his forehead with an ink-stained finger, “The sheer vision of it! Astonishing. Breathtaking.”

          “What is?”

          By way of reply, Piero gestured toward the microscope. Corvo moved cautiously to the desk and leaned down, peering into the brass sight.

          “This is from the first set of samples,” Piero said in a measured tone, as if he were giving a lecture at the Academy, “the ones you say originate from Crury Wharf. Now, stay there, don't move.”

          There was a darkness as the microscope was invaded by Piero's hand. He removed the slide and replaced it with another.

          “This is a sample from the second set.”

          “The distillery,” Corvo corrected, staring ahead at the oddly colored shapes. He was unsure what it was Piero expected him to see. This sample was darker than the last, and some of the shapes inside looked malformed.

          Piero made a noncommittal noise and switched slides again, “And this is a clean sample. An unexposed sample.”

          His emphasis suggested he was waiting for Corvo to come to some striking revelation. Corvo stood up, giving Piero a confused glance.

          “They look... different,” he said tentatively.

          “Yes, precisely.”

          Corvo fixed the scientist with an impatient glare, and Piero turned his hand in a short circle as if to help Corvo along.

          “The wharf samples, although they are healthy, are not cured. If they had been cured, they would resemble the clean sample. They are _different,_ drastically different, for surviving.”

          A shock of relief rooted Corvo to the spot, “The wharf samples are healthy?”

          Piero turned away, shuffling papers on the desk and searching for a pencil, “Indeed. It seems Sokolov knew what he was doing after all. Of course, I still need to determine his methods.”

          Corvo let out a deep breath, recalling the little sanctuary by the water, lit by warm firelight. He imagined Samuel's shaking frame standing proud and unbowed once more. He was about to share the good news when he caught sight of Cecelia's face. She was staring at Piero, her expression puzzled and her mouth open in confusion. Piero, absorbed in taking notes, did not notice.

          “What clean sample?” she whispered.

          “Hm?” Piero half-turned.

          Her jaw twitched, “Where did you get a clean sample?”

          “Fortunately, I happen to possess the necessary material,” Piero replied, dropping his pencil. He pushed his sleeve up, revealing the crook of his elbow. The skin there was bruised around the puncture left by a syringe.

          Cecelia reached out and closed a hand Piero's arm. She held him firmly by the wrist, like a parent about to discipline a child. She leaned close, voice low and fearful.

          “You put a hole in your arm in a laboratory filled with infected blood?”

          “I thought it best,” Piero said flatly, “I had to be sure there was no chance of prior exposure.”

          They exchanged a long, frustrated glare. Then Cecelia glanced angrily away, and as Corvo watched, Piero's face underwent a series of changes. He was a first guilty, then sympathetic, and finally apologetic. Piero sighed quietly and placed his hand over Cecelia's, pulling gently at her fingers until her grip softened.

          “Please,” Piero mumbled, “Allow me to explain. I will try to be thorough.”

          Cecelia released him, and he took this as an invitation to continue. He gestured toward the microscope.

          “I have examined Sokolov's samples and I have determined,” he took a moment to adjust as he braced a hand on the desk, “that Sokolov abandoned the idea of a cure for the plague. He came to the same conclusion I drew months ago, that a cure would be utterly impossible.”

          Piero noticed the bewildered look on Corvo's face and held up a hand, “So, how, you wonder, can the samples from the first set be healthy? They have not been cured, yet they are not affected by the disease. Sokolov did not purge the infection, merely coaxed the infected body into ignoring the plague. He rendered the plague powerless.”

          Corvo exchanged a lost glance with Cecelia.

          “And that's not a cure?” he ventured.

          “No. The plague still exists within the blood. Anyone treated with Sokolov's solution remains a carrier, and they will spread the disease just as easily as before. They're simply no longer sick.”

          “How?” Cecelia asked, and Piero deflated a bit.

          “At the moment,” he cast a nervous eye over the workshop, “I have only hypotheses. They are _close_ hypotheses, I assure you. But without Sokolov's formula, I will have to guess at his methods by trial and error. Not that I am lacking motivation. I have... very compelling reasons to succeed.”

          Piero reached carefully for the table, picking up one of the empty vials and holding it between his fingers. He raised it before his chest, staring down at the little glass tube as it glittered in the low light. A chilled hush overtook the room. Cecelia's hand jerked rigidly forward, stopping just short of Piero.

          “You didn't--” she stammered, “Tell me you didn't--”

          “I apologize,” he avoided her eyes, “It had to be done.”

          She drew in a ragged breath that Corvo felt in his spine. Piero continued to turn the vial back and forth, the quivering line of his mouth the only hint of doubt. With a sudden flick of his wrist, he set the vial on the desk and pulled himself up straight.

          “Sokolov has given me a recent strain,” he adjusted his glasses self-consciously, “but I needed a way to test my progress. As there is a lack of viable test subjects...”

          “Piero,” Cecelia murmured, “You could have used me.”

          He stared impassively at her, his throat working, “No, I truly could not.”

          The muted noise from Cecelia's lips was wordless and furious, and she pressed a white-knuckled hand against her mouth. Corvo stared blankly at the empty vial where it rocked on the table. Piero looked to him, a cloudy darkness in his eyes magnified by the lenses of his glasses.

          “One more thing you should know,” Piero leaned back against the desk and slid the half-empty leather case into view, “These samples all contain the same strain. Sokolov predicted this, yes?”

          Corvo nodded slowly, struggling to focus, “He did. He said it was telling.”

          “And it is,” Piero pulled forward his chair and sat wearily down, “This strain has none of the mutations of the Dunwall plague. It is unique.”

          “How?” Corvo asked.

          Piero frowned, “This is no product of the Flooded District; it bears closer resemblance to the plague's earliest recorded cases. It was cultivated elsewhere in a controlled environment, undoubtedly by someone studying the original Pandyssian disease.”

          “What are you getting at?”

          “Dunwall's plague has adjusted to conditions here,” Piero tapped the arm of the chair for emphasis, _“This_ strain, like its first ancestors, kills rapidly. Too rapidly to support a self-sustaining infection rate, most of its victims are dead before they can spread the disease. I believe it was designed for a specific purpose.”

          “Wait,” Corvo held up a hand, “someone _altered_ the plague? Why?”

          The question earned a dismissive shrug from Piero, “I expect for the same reason Sokolov sought to neutralize it. It is simply the most powerful weapon of the age.”

 

          Piero locked the doors to the lab. He refused to allow Cecelia back inside, despite a short, hushed argument through the keyhole. The rest of the day passed in miserable silence. As night fell, Corvo brought Piero a light dinner and left it in the hall. He found it untouched at dawn.

          The new morning brought clouds from the sea and washed the city in fresh rain. The mill echoed with the rhythmic tapping of water against boarded windows. Corvo, awake early, wandered the grounds to clear his head. His sleep had been interrupted by dreams of the tide, strange cliffs and the smell of the Void. Wakefulness proved even more difficult. He struggled not to think of the distillery, quiet and cold as the plague set in. He counted his own steps as he shuffled onto the factory floor.

          He found Cecelia already awake in the little pantry at the far corner of the main floor. She appeared to be constructing another tray of food for Piero. Her motions were slow and automatic, her mouth set in a firm line and eyes downcast. She did not say a word when he approached. There was little to say.

          Corvo attempted to make himself useful, clearing away tins and baskets from the countertop as Cecelia set them aside. They worked without speaking for some time. Cecelia did not look at him, instead handing him whatever she needed him to put away.

          She shoved a jar of preserved fruit toward him, and he placed it gently on the shelf above. With a low sigh, she braced both hands against the old wood counter and leaned forward. Her head dipped toward the half-made breakfast plate before her.

          “I'm not angry with you,” she said carefully, “but I wish you'd never come here.”

          Corvo glanced down. He could hardly blame her. Cecelia drew in a long breath and pulled herself up, resuming her search of the pantry. Corvo allowed a brief silence to wind.

          “This isn't what I wanted,” he said, though the words felt hopelessly inadequate.

          She lifted her shoulders in a guarded shrug, “Well, it's done now. I just hope your friends are worth it.”

          “So do I.”

          Cecelia paused for a moment, then gave a bitter shake of her head. She stared purposely ahead as she sliced a loaf of bread with a fish knife. Her thin fingers were tense where they gripped the handle, but the knife traveled steadily back and forth. Eventually, she pushed the tray in his direction, plate piled with bread, dried meat and fruit.

          “Make sure he eats,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning into the counter. Corvo took the tray with a nod.

          He had to knock several times at the laboratory door. Piero shouted a greeting, then made Corvo wait. After a long while, the scientist finally opened the door a crack and peered into the hall. Corvo pushed hard on the door and stepped assertively into the lab. He lead with the tray, forcing Piero to move back.

          “Eat,” he said flatly.

          Piero raised his eyebrows, “An odd time for concern. It is highly unlikely I would starve to death before--”

          Corvo fixed the man with his most withering glare, and Piero stopped speaking abruptly. After an awkward moment's hesitation, Piero accepted the tray. Corvo watched his outstretched hand for any sign of weakness. Piero's grip remained strong as he turned toward the lab, bobbing his head toward the desk.

          “While you're here, Corvo, if you'd assist me for a moment...”

          Corvo followed, noting the mounting piles of books and paper on the floor. A space had been cleared in the center of the room, where a strange symbol was drawn on the floorboards in chalk. Piero stepped purposely around it, careful not to smudge the lines. Corvo skirted the edge of the symbol, inspecting it as he did. The markings were a circle containing a smaller circle, along with a star and several illegible inscriptions. Fragments of bone sat at each point of the star. The scene was ominously familiar.

          Piero set his breakfast down on the table with a clatter, then turned and traced Corvo's gaze to the floor.

          “Ah, yes,” Piero leaned to one side, pulling his bad leg forward, “I am attempting some of Sokolov's less traditional methods.”

          “Why?” Corvo glanced up to find Piero leering at him with a tight smile.

          “I was hoping you might help test a theory of mine.”

          “Me?”

          Piero passed a lazy hand over a series of instruments strewn across the desk, eventually selecting a scalpel and twirling it between his fingers until the blade faced his own palm. He extended his arm, offering the tool to Corvo.

          “If you would.”

          Corvo accepted the blade and turned it over distrustfully in his hand. Its clean edge caught the light. He looked back to Piero, half expecting to hear the rest of a joke. But Piero was watching him without a hint of humor.

          “What exactly do you want me to do?” Corvo asked slowly.

          “Bleed,” Piero replied curtly, then scratched his chin, “Ideally over the markings on the floor.”

          Corvo stared at him, utterly speechless.

          “I assure you,” Piero muffled a yawn with his hand, “it is completely safe.”

          He was so calm that Corvo almost believed him. With another long look at the chalk below, Corvo pulled the sleeve of his borrowed shirt begrudgingly back. He paused with the scalpel held to the back of his arm.

          “What do you expect to happen?” he asked around a prickling sense of foreboding.

          Piero shrugged, fiddling with his glasses, “That is what this test will determine. Not to be rude, Corvo, but we have limited time.”

          Corvo worked his jaw, weighing Piero's confidence against his own instincts. He failed to see how resorting to witchcraft would bring them any closer to Sokolov's formula. He could hardly argue, however. Piero had been willing to infect himself with plague. He was asking much less of Corvo now.

          Setting his teeth, he pressed the scalpel against the bare skin of his arm and drew a horizontal line. Blood welled along the cut. Corvo twisted the skin near the open wound and tilted his arm over the chalk symbol. A gentle patter sounded as blood dripped to the floor. The lab was still as the chalk lines and the wood beneath soaked through and turned red.

          There was a sudden roar like the crashing of a wave, and the circle was illuminated with white light. A burst of wind rushed from the glowing marks, blowing Corvo's hair back from his face and sending Piero's notes into the air. Piero let out a wild sound of wonder as the Void flowed into the lab, salt air thick and heavy. Corvo's hand stung fiercely as the Outsider's mark flared to life.

          Corvo drew in a fast breath of surprise, and as he did all color faded from sight. The silence of the Void surrounded him as time stuttered to a slow trickle. The wind swept faintly over his skin. Around the lab, papers and pencils floated gently up from their tables. Corvo looked to Piero and found him frozen in place, a wry look of approval captured on his features. Behind him, the contents of his forgotten breakfast traveled into the air.

          For a moment, Corvo was unsure whether he had stopped time without meaning to, or Piero's ritual had somehow gone wrong. He glanced down at his hand, where the mark was shining and black. Motion at the corner of his eye caused him to turn.

          At the far end of the lab, a creeping darkness was forming. It grew into a ghostly smoke at the edges of Corvo's vision. It dissipated when he stared, only to crowd just out of sight, nearer and darker than before. Corvo turned in place, but he could not track the shadowy fog. It seemed to come from all sides, flickering with intermittent light. A smell like a summer storm reached him.

          Eager to end the experiment, he flexed his hand, forming a fist and then relaxing it. The mark flashed dutifully, but the Void did not respond. A sinking sensation crept over him as he repeated the motion. His arm tingled with energy, but no power flowed into his fingertips. The smoke crept closer around him and a shock of electricity burned down his arm. His stomach twisted in realization. He was no longer in control. The Void was obeying someone else.

          A rasping breath sounded just beside his ear, followed by a voice.

          “ _There you are, my brave little birdy.”_

          Corvo let out a wordless shout, stumbling to one side as he whirled. No figure parted the fog, but two cold hands gripped his shoulders with impossible strength.

          “ _Peck, peck, peck. Always making a mess.”_

          A gruesome stench wafted from the smoke, rotting flesh and rosy perfume, and Corvo gagged, coughing hard.

          “ _Granny is going to have to clip your wings, dearie.”_

          The freezing hands shifted and closed around his throat like a vice. He clawed at the air, staggering back, but the fog merely parted and reformed. He choked as sharp fingernails dug painfully into his neck. He pushed all of his strength into the mark, but the Void was unreachable. He fumbled for his sword.

          Before he could draw the blade, a swift gust of wind sent a wave of color through the lab. The Void rippled, and the pressure on his throat released.

          Gasping, Corvo reached out and this time the mark sang. The fog dispersed in an instant, and time snapped forward in a vivid flash. Corvo doubled over, allowing his lungs the freedom of a deep, hacking cough. There was a fluttering thud as airborne papers and trinkets fell back to earth.

          “Move aside, please,” Piero said, brushing past Corvo with a grunt.

          The inventor descended painfully to one knee beside the chalk circle. He withdrew a vial of blood from his pocket, along with a chipped saucer. He dropped the saucer, then upended the entire vial of blood into the little ceramic dish. The light of the Void gleamed a moment longer before it was extinguished with a sizzle. A thin trail of grey smoke rose from the singed lines where the chalk had been.

          Piero lifted the saucer and observed its contents, lips parting in a slow smile.

          “Piero,” Corvo wheezed, “we have to--”

          He was interrupted by a burning in his throat, and had to grip the side of the table as he coughed. Piero was still studying the blood-filled saucer, expression determined.

          “Corvo,” Piero spoke over him, voice heavy, “I might need that blood sample from you after all.”

          “We have to _leave!”_ Corvo said urgently, catching his breath, “There's a witch, we don't have time--”

          Piero waved him off with a silencing gesture of his hand, “I know.”

          Corvo made a choked sound of rage,“You _what?!”_

          “This is infinitely more important,” Piero struggled to push himself to his feet, wobbling on his cane, “We have work to do.”

          As Corvo sputtered for words, Piero turned toward the desk. He set the saucer beside the microscope and picked up a pencil, scribbling on the closest piece of scattered paper. He muttered under his breath as he wrote.

          “Is it possible? Could he have found the solution in the source? Exposing the blood to save it. Feeding the plague its own progeny. Mad science, absolute mad science. A desperate gamble, all of Dunwall as leverage. Brilliant and terrible.”

          “Piero,” Corvo hissed, closing a threatening hand around the inventor's arm, “you don't understand. She's--”

          He trailed off as the lights above flickered out, plunging the room into complete darkness. A sudden hush descended as the entire mill lost power, punctuated by a whine from the roof as the arc pylon cycled down. The quiet amplified the pounding rain. Corvo held his breath, eyes adjusting to the pitch blackness of the windowless lab.

          “Here?” Piero supplied calmly.

          Corvo's heart missed a beat, pulse thundering in the silence. He drew himself up, twitching his hand. The mark glowed brightly as his vision shifted. He stared down through the mill, fear anchoring him to the spot as he gazed through the floors. Piero was right. They were out of time.

          The rats had come.

          

          Corvo spent several desperate minutes in the dark making a barricade while Piero secured the saucer of blood. He pulled the nearest table toward him, sending trinkets and jars crashing to the floor, and pushed it up against the doorframe. He gathered an armful of heavy books, piling them underneath.

          "We cannot leave this place," Piero was saying, "Not now."

          “I'm going for Cecelia,” Corvo said over his shoulder, not bothering to reply, “Block the door behind me.”

          "Wait."

          Piero moved unevenly to the desk, cane thudding on the floor. There was a scraping sound as a drawer was opened, and Piero's hands sought out Corvo's in the dark. He pressed something metal and cold into Corvo's palm, and Corvo felt the familiar brush of the lining of his mask. He hooked a thumb around its edge.

          "Take it," Piero said emphatically, "I repaired the clasps."

          "Thank you," Corvo breathed, "Will you be safe up here?”

          “I sincerely hope so. Good luck.”

          Corvo was briefly thankful that the darkness hid the doubting expression on his face. He clapped a hand to Piero's shoulder before reaching out and blinking across the room. He stepped into the hall, where the natural light from the factory floor made it easier to see. The door swung shut behind him.

          In the stairwell, Corvo flipped his mask into his free hand and pulled it on. He tightened the straps as he moved toward the top of the stairs. The inside of the mask reeked of salt water, but it was otherwise undamaged. Corvo blinked down the stairs a flight at a time.

          Close to the factory floor, the rats made their presence known, squeaking and snarling as they clawed over the concrete. They were in the process of flooding the entire ground level of the building, turning its floor into a writhing mess. They were crowded thickest in the stairwell to the basement. Corvo hesitated just above them, considering his approach. There was no sign of Granny Rags or her telltale smoke.

          As he scanned the main floor, Corvo found Cecelia high atop a stack of shipping crates near the front of the building. He let out a low sigh of relief. She seemed unharmed, and the rats were clearly uninterested in pursuing her. Most likely, they were waiting for him.

          The scratching voice called to him from outside the building, unnaturally loud in the quiet morning air.

          “ _Where are you hiding, dearie?”_

          Corvo huffed in disgust. He was sure Granny Rags knew exactly where he was hiding. She had found him only minutes before. He made his way across the wide room, using the tall looms as stepping stones. The rats circled below. He blinked to the front stair, creeping onto a storage platform just inside the main entryway. Peering out of the wide doorway, he had a close view of the yard. Beyond a silenced wall of light, the old witch waited in the open, surrounded by rats. She was shrouded in inky smoke, and seemed to hover just above the ground. As Corvo watched, she turned to face him, her unseeing eyes staring directly at him. She raised a thin hand, beckoning.

          “Come out, my darling, Granny wants to talk.”

          That was unlikely. Corvo weighed whether confronting the witch might buy Piero and Cecelia time to escape. He fingered the hilt of his sword, blood pounding in his ears.

          “ _Come out,_ ” Granny Rags' tone descended into a threatening bark, “or my birdies will make a feast of your little friends.”

          Steeling himself, Corvo focused on the yard and flung himself forward. A breath later, he stood opposite the old woman with his sword extended. He expected to feel the sharp bite of rat teeth at any second, but the creatures parted sluggishly around him. Granny Rags crossed her arms, hunching forward as if waiting for Corvo to speak.

          She looked much the same as ever, her patched and tattered finery now covered by a fraying velvet shawl. Her white hair was piled high and laced with bone. Her fingers, tapping against her arms, were skeletal and mottled. Something in her presence was different, a humming pitch that was at once foreign and instantly identifiable. It was the sound that kept the rats loyal. Corvo struggled to remember whether he had ever heard it before.

          “Nothing to say to old Granny?” she leaned back, disappointed, “Such a shame.”

          Corvo remained steadfast as he tightened his grip on his sword. The rain began to soak through his clothing. The darkening clouds cast the mill in deep shadows. Granny Rags was briefly illuminated by the flash of red light through her smoky veil.

          “What do you want?” Corvo shouted, covering a nervous shudder.

          She clucked her tongue at him, “Manners! Granny only came to see how the poor dear was doing. How lonely he must be, without any voice to guide him.”

          A sinking chill washed over him. How could she possibly know that the Outsider had abandoned him? Corvo let out an unsteady breath, and Granny Rags cocked her head.

          “Oh, _listen_ to his heart beating,” she gave a low, thin laugh, “It must ache.”

          Corvo took a step forward, “If you're here to kill me--”

          “Hush!” her voice rose suddenly, booming across the yard, and Corvo hushed despite himself, “It's not time for dinner yet. You know Granny likes to play with her food.”

          She reached into the folds of the velvet shawl, and Corvo tensed as he prepared for an attack. He was taken aback when she withdrew a small, dark shape. It was about the size of her hand, strapped with small bits of metal. It twitched, and black liquid dripped to the dirt. Corvo narrowed his eyes at it, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

          “What do we think, dearie?” Granny Rags said gently to the heart cradled in her fingers, “Will he break?”

 


	16. Veil

          The low roar of the rain laid a smothering hush over the mill yard. Granny Rags waited in silence. Tendrils of black smoke played around her face. Corvo could not tear his eyes away from the the glistening form of the heart. Rainwater washed over it, sending a spiral of dark blood down the witch's arm. Corvo's throat tightened in disgust.

          “Oh?” Granny Rags tilted her head inquisitively, “Does he not care for you as he once did?”

          She seemed to be speaking to the heart. There was a vague air of familiarity about the thing, like a sight from a dream. Corvo tried not to imagine the face it might have worn, or how Granny Rags had acquired it.

          “Who--” he worked to form the question, “Whose heart is that?”

          Granny Rags' lips parted in a slow grin, baring crooked teeth, “My, my, he forgets so soon. Of course, we all forget. A small price for my beloved. For his gifts.”

          A fleeting shiver traveled Corvo's shoulders, chased by the seep of water, “What are you talking about?”

          “The end of all things,” she said, holding the heart close to her chest, “My dear one must be _very_ disappointed in you, to take this away from you now.”

          Corvo was so utterly confused he could not think of a response. An image of the Outsider's expressionless face faded through his mind. _It's all falling apart._ Had the old witch received the same warning? Corvo failed to see how a human heart figured in, or why Granny Rags seemed to think he'd recognize it.

          "What are you planning to do with that?" he ventured, despite a fervent hope he would not have to find out.

          “The poor dear has been through enough,” Granny Rags said to herself, running a gentle hand over the heart, “Granny will keep her safe, yes, safe and sound. Such a shame, her man has left her behind for another. Well, Granny knows something of that, doesn't she?”

          The last question she addressed to Corvo, glancing at him with her clouded eyes darting. He had barely opened his mouth to reply before she added in a condescending snarl, “And how _is_ Slackjaw, dearie? Keeping well?”

          The taunting lilt to her voice made it clear she knew exactly how Slackjaw was keeping. Corvo forced himself to release a slow, careful breath.

          “He deserves what he gets,” Granny Rags continued, folding the heart into her shawl, “Wouldn't things be easier, if you had simply poisoned that wicked man when Granny asked you to?”

          Corvo frowned at the question, examining her face. Distance softened her edges, exaggerating her tight smile and the darkness around her eyes. Surely she hadn't come all the way to Drapers to rekindle a year-old feud. He turned his gaze on the rat swarm, circling and squeaking at his feet. A crawling suspicion unfurled in his mind, taking shape with sudden clarity.

          “You mean if I'd spread the plague for you?” his voice cut through the rain, “That's what you want, isn't it? You wanted me to poison the still. You tried to kill Sokolov in Rudshore. Now you're here for Piero.”

          The unearthly hum in the air changed sharply in pitch, and the rats began to scurry excitedly, ears pricked as if waiting for instruction. Granny Rags crossed her arms as the lines of her face drew into a deep grimace.

          “Did you do all of this?” Corvo demanded, shifting his sword, “Did you put Daud up to it?”

          “Oh, dearie,” she said coldly, all trace of amusement vanished, “I'm afraid you're out of your depth. Busier hands than mine are at work. But Granny has been patient for a long time. If my dark-eyed love no longer cares for you, there's no reason to keep you alive.”

          The song shifted again, so severe that Corvo felt it vibrate in his bones. A wave of movement rippled at his feet as every rat in the yard turned to face him at once. They waited, unmoving, prepared to charge.

          Without warning, a thunderous pain seemed to explode through his head. He cringed as his vision was plunged into shades of grey, illuminating the rats and carpeting the yard in golden light. The familiar tingling buzz at the base of his skull trickled down his spine. His hand stung violently as the mark flared to life.

          Granny Rags, glimmering the distance, gave a low sound of annoyance, “Seeking help from the Void? You won't find it.”

          Corvo was inclined to agree. The pain was so thick it was nauseating. His limbs felt leaden, barely responding when he tried to move. He took shallow breaths to steady himself. His hand twiched, dark smoke pouring from the Outsider's mark.

          A shuddering impulse contorted his arm, and he gave a weak grunt of surprise as his marked hand raised itself unbidden and clawed wildly through the air. His fingers found an impossible weight, dragging as if plunged into water. The odd music binding the rats escalated into a deafening shriek, reverberating through the open space. The rats squealed and darted in panic.

          Granny Rags jerked back, “What?!”

          Corvo found his hand knew more than he did, as it flexed and pulled at the air. Within the low-hanging fog, the rats began to cry out in fear.

          “Oh, no you don't--” Granny Rags began, but Corvo's hand twisted and the mark blazed. A screeching pitch tore through the air. The rats underfoot dissolved into a blanket of mist. Granny Rags let out a wordless shout of fury.

          There was a flash and the witch was gone, her only trace a wisp of darkness. The pain in Corvo's head subsided as he whirled in place, sword held at a defensive angle. His augmented sight caught glimses of heat as Granny Rags traveled from blind spot to blind spot. He backed toward the mill in a slow circle.

          A glimpse of gold darted across his vision and his hand flew forward of its own accord. Time halted instantly. Corvo lunged, but his sword passed through only smoke.

          “ _New tricks, dearie?”_ the witch's voice traveled around him in waves, _“A shame there's no Slackjaw here to help you this time.”_

          “Tell me something,” Corvo stalled, eyes roving the frozen yard, “Did you want him dead to stop him selling elixir? Or did he know too much?”

          “ _You should have asked him yourself,”_ Granny Rags' voice grew closer, _“You've missed your last chance.”_

          Cold rage flooded through Corvo, knotting somewhere just beneath his heart. There was a flicker of light nearby, and he threw himself toward it, reaching out as the mark seared. He blinked through the mist, sword swinging in a deadly arc. He heard Granny Rags shout in surprise, but his blade missed its mark as he was knocked aside by a mighty burst of wind. He landed on his hands and knees. Flecks of mud drifted slowly into the air around him. He reached for his sword, half buried in the muck.

          With a sudden, violent shake, the earth beneath him heaved and fell away. Corvo found himself pitched into thin air. He tumbled downward, his spinning vision a bright blur of grey and blue. The fall stretched on, seemingly eternal until he slammed spine-first into a hard surface. The breath was forced from his lungs, and his throat worked helplessly as he stared up. The colorless sky above was hazy and still. An arc pylon floated across the empty expanse.

          His lungs finally unclenched and Corvo gasped, tasting the salt of the Void. He sat up, running his hands weakly over the white marble beneath him. The mark still glowed and prickled. He coughed and dragged himself to his feet. He glanced up and froze.

          Above him, the open sky of the Void was interrupted by a wide smear of red. Massive bones, scarred and shattered, moved through the distant fog in a slow circle. Torn flesh and butchered fins revolved in a flowing cloud of blood. In the distance, the dessicated corpse of a whale moved through the murk. The whole gory horizon echoed with mournful sound like the crying of a child. Corvo absorbed the sight in mute horror, the weight of it anchoring his feet. What had happened here?

          Distant movement caught his attention, and he turned toward a grassy island to see the old woman standing serenely by. She seemed not to have noticed him, instead leaning with her head tilted toward the dead whale. Corvo glowered at her, one hand pressed to his chest as his lungs ached.

          Almost without thinking, he lifted his hand and blinked across the expanse. He charged the length of the island, approaching the witch in blind fury. She stepped back as he drew close, but Corvo grasped her arm and shook her roughly. She lost her footing and made a weak grab for his rain-soaked shirt. Her eyes roved blankly over Corvo's shoulder.

          “Always the favorite!” she fought to free herself, “I can see your strings! How they snag and pull.”

          “Enough,” he hissed, and his voice rang alien and cold in the heavy air, “Why spread the plague? What do you have to gain?”

          Her bony fingers formed a fist against his chest, and Granny Rags calmed herself long enough to let out a low laugh that seemed to multiply as it mingled with the whalesong.

          “ _Me?”_ her lips twisted into a faint smile, “Oh, I knew you were a fool.”

          She shoved him back, harder than Corvo would have thought possible, and a blast of wind between them forced him off-balance. He stumbled, and a careless step backwards sent his foot sliding over the edge of the island. He was weightless for a moment as the mossy stone scraped the sole of his boot. He fell, arms flailing desperately for the ledge. The mark flared briefly, but Corvo could not force his hand to clench. Then the ledge was out of reach, and he was plumetting through the stagnant Void.

          The stillness enveloped him on the way down. No wind rushed by, no sound fluttered. The island where Granny Rags stood grew rapidly smaller above him, surrounded by a bloody halo. An empty tallboy drifted by, its legs tangled in an Abbey banner. Corvo's heart pounded a panicked drumline as the cold light below grew ever brighter.

_Corvo._

          His name sounded once, spoken gently somewhere just beside him. It echoed and repeated, each whisper growing fainter as it multiplied. He drew a choked breath, a final shock shaking his limbs as he was drawn inward to the center of the Void. The voice had not belonged to the Outsider. A name darted through his mind only to vanish, a fleeting impression of warmth edged out by fear as the light grew blinding.

          The Void above swirled and wavered. Corvo's vision grew dark at the edges, and he closed his eyes. A freezing, sinking sensation caused him to open them again, and suddenly he was looking up at the clouds over Dunwall. Rain poured onto his face as mud soaked into his hair. He let out a weak sound of relief as his hands grazed solid ground. He rolled over, finding his limbs were still shaky with vertigo.

          “Ungrateful,” he could hear Granny Rags somewhere far behind him, “After all those gifts I gave you! Well, we'll see if he wants you when you're in pieces.”

          Keening music coursed through the air, calling the rats with increasing urgency. Corvo pushed himself to his knees and stretched out an arm for his sword. The steel grip slid away from his fingers, slippery with mud. He worked his jaw, flexing his hand and drawing a burning energy into the mark. His sword flew into his open palm.

          He looked toward the mill. Granny Rags appeared before the wide doorway, her hands working furiously in the mist. Corvo could hear the rats chattering somewhere unseen. He stood jerkily.

          Time seemed not to slow or stop, but to draw itself out into distorted lengths as he took determined steps toward her. His vision faded between the grey of the Void and the desolate browns of the cold morning. Granny Rags stood constant as reality shifted around her, the dirt at her feet giving way to the grassy island in the Void. The hum of magic was accompanied by a shrill chorus as the rats took form. Corvo lifted his hand. The mark burned like fire, the pain cramping Corvo's palm until he wrestled his fingers into a fist. The Void fell away, leaving only the hazy mill yard. Granny Rags cried out in anger.

          Corvo blinked forward as she called the rats. She pulled back, anticipating him, but she was far too slow. His sword cut easily through the thin shawl and ragged clothes, and the old woman let out a halting cry as a spray of blood followed the blade. She staggered, wrapping her arms around herself as she fell.

          Corvo raised his blade to strike her again, but she vanished in a flood of smoke. The dark cloud flowed into the horde of rats, keeping pace as they bolted for the disused canal. They poured through the rusting grates and patched doorway, ducking out of sight into the sewers.

          “ _We're not done, you and I,”_ Granny Rags' voice rang out, receeding into the patter of the rain, _“I'll find you, dearie.”_

          The last of the rats escaped into the stonework and a calm silence descended. For a long while, Corvo stood without moving, fully expecting the rats to come back. But no smoky magic curled through the rain, and the yard remained untouched by the Void. A dwindling of the pain in his hand caused Corvo to glance down at the mark, and he found it black and cold. He allowed himself a shuddering sigh.

          “Corvo!” came Cecelia's voice from behind him, and he turned toward the main entryway to see her running through the mud. Her red hair flew free around her head, her cap clenched tightly in her fist. Her eyes were wide and fearful and her nose pink from the cold. Corvo lifted a hand as she approached, indicating the danger had passed. She slowed to a jog as she drew near.

          “Are you alright?” Corvo asked, his voice thin with tension.

          “I'm fine,” she arrived, breathless, at his side, “We're both fine. Are you hurt?”

          “No,” Corvo muttered, eyeing the dry waterway.

          “The rats just disappeared, like they were never here. Who _was_ that woman?”

          “She's called Granny Rags,” he flicked his sword closed, beginning to relax as his pulse slowed.

          “The crazy old lady from the Distillery District?" Cecelia smoothed her hair, putting on her cap, "I thought she was dead.”

          “She should be,” Corvo replied bitterly.

          Cecelia let out a nervous, flat laugh, “Agreed.”

          Corvo unclasped his mask and pulled it away from his face, taking a deep breath of clean air. Overhead, the clouds finally began to lighten. The rain eased into a gentle drizzle, cooling his skin. He turned to face Cecelia, offering her a weary, joyless smile. To his surprise, Cecelia gasped, flinching away as her hands flew to her mouth.

          “Corvo!” she took a terrified step back, her voice muffled by a fist, “Corvo, your eyes!”

          He blinked at her, mystified, “My eyes?”

          “They... Corvo, they're... black.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extreme delay on this one. Between the last few chapters I've started a full-time job on top of night school so things have been very hectic. BUT please don't fear, updates will keep coming even if they're a little slow! I'll probably take a break to play Dishonored 2 when it comes out, though. (Also, I finally fixed the deary/dearie situation)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter, thank you all for reading! <3


	17. Cold Shelter

          No amount of reassurance would put Cecelia at ease. She remained silent as they walked back through the mill, glancing intermittently at Corvo as if he might burst into flames. She seemed to be holding back a torrent of questions. Corvo had no explanation for her, and lapsed into a miserable quiet of his own. He was already tired, and the brightening morning light from the high windows was rapidly giving him a headache. He was grateful when Cecelia excused herself to see to the security system.

          Corvo made his way up the stairs to Piero's laboratory, where muffled sounds of movement within echoed into the hall. Intermittent murmuring punctuated the quiet, and Corvo paused outside the door, listening as Piero talked to himself. The words were indistinct and frantic. Corvo placed a hand on the knob and found the door locked. He leaned against it, knocking briskly.

          “Piero,” he called, “are you alright?”

          There was a brief delay before Piero answered, “I am perfectly well, all things considered.”

          His voice sounded distant. Corvo twisted the doorknob, despite knowing a mountain of debris blocked the door from the other side.

          “Tell me what's happening,” he demanded, words coming out in a rush.

          “Corvo,” Piero sighed, “I know you have concerns, but I must ask you to wait. The work cannot be postponed.”

          Corvo's capacity for patience finally guttered out, accompanied by a swift heat through his veins. He banged a hand against the door, rattling the wall.

          “Piero, I just chased a mad witch through the Void,” he snapped, “half of Dunwall is trying to kill me, and the city's last line of defense is dying in their beds.”

          His voice descended into a snarl before he could catch himself, “Now you've got me performing blood rituals. That hag was carrying someone's _heart._ You've postponed enough. I want an explanation.”

          A long silence followed this outburst, so absolute that Corvo softened his own breathing to better hear any activity from within the lab. Finally, Piero let out a low groan. A creaking noise reached Corvo as Piero sat down in the desk chair.

          “I have none to give you, Corvo,” Piero's response was strained, “I am sailing blind. All I have are these samples and mere glimpses of Sokolov's notes. I'm... doing what I can.”

          Corvo shifted his weight, unconvinced, “You summoned the Void from memory?”

          Piero gave a strange, weak laugh, “From memory, from dreams. Who knows. And as for her-- for the heart...”

          He trailed off, and there was a clattering from the lab, as if Piero had kicked something aside.

          “I am far outside my element, Corvo,” the inventor finally said, an edge of desperation sharpening his usual dryness, “I have placed myself between Dunwall and disaster. And, as things stand, I am dying.”

          The admission, hushed by the door between them, held an unexpected weight. Corvo closed his mouth as the response he'd been readying faded on his lips. He felt a welling shame, suddenly aware that his grip on the doorknob had grown tight. He forced himself to release the thing, curling his hand by his side. He cleared his throat.

          “I'll be downstairs,” he replied as gently as he could.

          Piero was silent. Corvo did not wait long before trudging back down the stairs, a newly bloomed guilt piling itself atop his brewing anxiety. Unsure what to do with himself, he set about cleaning the mud from his clothing, borrowing a few rags from a pile of undone laundry. He scraped his boots clean as he dried himself by the kitchen stove. His thoughts turned in circles, half-formed and dim.

          What had happened in the Void? Corvo asked himself the question as many ways as he knew how. He had fallen into nothingness and somehow emerged intact. He felt much the same as ever but something _was_ different, though he could hardly have said what. He glanced down at the mark, as if it might awaken once more and guide his hand. The spiking shape remained lifeless, the surrounding skin red and blistered like a burn.

          He felt suddenly like a trespasser in the quiet. He had brought ruin to Piero and Cecelia, in their little corner of Dunwall. It would have reached them eventually, of course. But he had swept them up into a deadly storm, and he had done it without a second thought. He had no right to be angry with Piero now. He pressed his mouth against a fist, staring deep into the fire as his mind churned itself empty.

          He remained there until the flames wavered and dimmed. He slumped in his chair, dozing off for short intervals in mercifully dreamless sleep. When next he awoke, the wood within the stove had burnt away to barely a candle's flare.

          “Corvo?”

          He shook himself from listlessness to find Cecelia watching him from a short distance. She looked a little less nervous than she had before. She was holding something small and glittering in one hand, her arms crossed tightly over her ribs.

          “Are you...” she shifted in place, as if to build up the courage to ask the question, “Are you feeling alright?”

          He nodded, glancing around the mill. The sun no longer streamed down through the windows, instead offering a diffuse glow. The long shadows of morning had disappeared from the factory floor, exchanged for the cool afternoon shade.

          “Does it hurt?” Cecelia asked, and Corvo cocked his head in confusion. She gestured vaguely to her own face, fingers fanning beside her eyes.

          “Oh,” he released a tired breath. He had almost managed to forget. “No.”

          “Good,” she said haltingly, “That's... that's good.”

          She unfurled her arms, turning the object in her hand over as she did. It was a small, round mirror, free of its frame.

          “I thought you might want to see,” Cecelia said, avoiding Corvo's gaze, “Not that you have to.”

          “Thank you,” Corvo extended a hand, breathing through his teeth. He accepted the little mirror, biting down on a bubbling fear as it threatened to shake his grip. He lifted the glass.

          His own face, bruised and ragged, greeted him silently. His eyes were at once wildly alien and all too familiar. Their irises had been eclipsed by a sickly iron color, their whites overtaken by deep black. Only a faint halo of light, reflecting the weak sun, suggested he could see at all. He lifted a hand, pulling at his skin to bettter see the change. His fingers began to tremble, and he nearly jabbed himself in the eye before handing the mirror abruptly back.

          “Well,” he said quietly, “that's... different.”

          He was grateful for the silence as Cecelia gave him time to adjust. He waited until the wave of nerves had passed, and the tension had gone out of Cecelia's frame. Eventually, Corvo stood and stretched. His spine gave an audible click. A breath of sympathetic laughter from Cecelia was enough to bridge whatever gulf had formed between them that morning. She gestured toward the yard with one hand.

          “Help me block up the sewer?”

 

          The rest of the day was spent piling stones, bricks and mud over the door to the sewers. It was a welcome distraction. The work was repetitive but demanding enough to require their full attention. By sunset, they had created a thick wall of material which trailed into the brackish pool of rainwater in the old canal. It was no substitute for the arc pylons, but it was a good start.

          As night fell, Corvo rekindled the kitchen fire while Cecelia cracked open a large tin of preserved fish. They sat in amicable quiet as a flat pan warmed over the flames, toasting slices of bread. Dinner was eaten with a mismatched variety of utensils, and when the tin was mostly empty and the bread nearly gone, Cecelia took the rest up the stairs to leave outside Piero's door. She returned with a familiar bottle in hand, along with two plain teacups.

          Corvo could not hide a slightly smug smile, covering a pang of loss, “I thought you hated Bottle Street.”

          “I can't afford to,” she admitted, handing him a teacup.

          She poured, and they drank, and the burn of whiskey down the back of Corvo's throat left him with a conflicted sort of comfort. Cecelia pulled her chair close to his, leaning back and offering the bottle to him. He took it and helped himself, feeling her gaze as it lighted on the side of his face.

          “Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Bottle Street?” she asked him, “How you ended up there?”

          Corvo wrapped his thumb around the edge of his teacup, upending it into his mouth. He breathed in the earthy scent and was subject to a fleeting image of the distillery at night, filled with voices and raucous laughter. It seemed suddenly distant.

          “There isn't anything to tell,” he said, aware the lie was obvious, “I did some work for Slackjaw while I was at the Hound Pits. And he did some work for me.”

          “And that's all?” Cecelia sounded utterly unconvinced.

          He considered the truth. The bloody fate of the Pendletons. Slackjaw's desperate pleas for mercy in the shadow of a rotting whale. Granny Rags and her sacrificial bathtub. _You cheating bastard,_ came Slackjaw's voice from out of time, and Corvo gave a tiny smirk at the memory.

          “More or less,” he said, putting a definitive end to the conversation. Cecelia gave a dissatisfied huff and took the bottle back.

          Their talk shifted to lighter things, a forcible effort to distract themselves from the looming presence of the plague in their midst. As the night drew on, and no sound echoed from the lab, their borrowed calm stretched itself thin. The wind picked up, rattling the boarded windows and whistling through faraway railcar lines. They went drink for drink to outpace the nervous hush.

          Late in the night, Cecelia went to bed and left Corvo alone with the weak embers and his own thoughts. Corvo held the half-empty bottle, staring vacantly ahead. He ran a hand over his face, scratching at overgrown stubble that was by now more of a short beard. It was undeniable now, the yearning for the sounds and smells of the distillery. His grip on the bottle grew tight.

          Would the plague take the older men first? Had any of them spread it already, breaking quarantine for a last goodbye with their wives and children? Slackjaw usually kept a tight rein on his men, but he was injured and _sick_ \-- Corvo winced as the word finally invaded his thoughts-- and there was no telling whether he'd be able to control them.

          And without Slackjaw's influence, would the younger boys panic? Would they beg their friends for mercy? It seemed an inevitability, and Corvo took a long drink from the bottle as a darker question surfaced: would Slackjaw? No, he realized, feeling faintly nauseous as he imagined the scene. Slackjaw, who always kept a pistol within reach, who carried a cleaver wherever he went, would not want his death on anyone else's hands. He was too proud, too defiant. He would do it himself.

          Corvo drew an abrupt breath, setting the bottle down on the kitchen countertop. The room blurred a little. He decided sleep would be best, swaying as he made his way toward the stairs. He reached the edge of the landing before a frenzied shout from above caused him to jump, one hand flying to his sword.

          A heavy thud sounded from the laboratory, and Corvo ran unevenly toward the attic stairwell. He stopped on his heels as Cecelia practically fell out of bed and staggered out toward him, her face wild and frightened.

          Piero's muffled voice reached them as if through water.

          “Can you hear me out there?” he yelled, throat dry and cracking, “I know what Sokolov did! It's in the blood! I understand now-- Corvo, can you hear me? It's in the blood!”

          Corvo stared up at the closed door, unable to put two words together. Cecelia bumped into him and steadied herself against his arm.

          “But I--” Piero broke off, suddenly winded. When he spoke again, he sounded subdued and a little sheepish, “I am going to need help with this door.”

 

          Corvo clenched his hand as the needle pierced his skin. He watched as his blood filled the glass of the syringe, fighting an impulse to hold his breath. Piero was muttering agitatedly as he held Corvo's arm steady.

          “I do wish you had told me,” he said flatly, “that you planned on drinking yourself into a stupor.”

          Corvo was too tired to answer with anything but a slight nod of embarrassment. He allowed Piero his admonishments, accepting them without protest.

          The lab was dark, the overhead lamp still lifeless and shadowed. Candles burned on the tables and surrounding shelves, casting an amber pall through the heavy air. It had taken Piero some time to clear the barricades away from the door. Corvo had shoved the remaining tables aside. Cecelia had followed him into the lab before he could stop her, and now sat to one side on a stool. She was quiet and focused, eyes watching sharply as Piero withdrew the syringe.

          “It was my fault,” she said, “I'm the one who broke out the whiskey.”

          Piero gave a low snort, “And, I imagine, poured it down his throat?”

          The words held no real bite, and Cecelia responded with a sideways smile. Piero pressed a folded strip of cloth into the crook of Corvo's arm, which Corvo held obligingly in place. Piero turned toward the desk, holding the syringe aloft.

          “What are you hoping to find?” Corvo asked, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees.

          Piero was busy shuffling a hand over the desk. He pulled free a tiny glass jar and set it gingerly aside. He then used a clean cloth to unscrew the needle from the syringe, speaking over his shoulder.

          “I am hoping,” he paused for effect, “to find evidence of Sokolov's solution to our rat-borne problem.”

          Corvo raised an eyebrow, “In my blood.”

          “Among other places,” Piero poured the contents of the syringe into the little glass container, “Yes.”

          “I don't follow,” Corvo said to Piero's hunched back, “Sokolov never gave me his new elixir.”

          Piero picked up an eyedropper and dipped it into the fresh blood. Bracing his wrist with his empty hand, he placed a single drop on a waiting microscope slide. He then bent low over the desk, obscuring Corvo's view.

          “Mm,” he hummed, “Unnecessary.”

          “Why?”

          Piero twisted in place to look at Corvo, glancing at him over the frames of his glasses, “Haven't you wondered why you never caught the plague?”

          “I... yes.”

          “You are immune, in a manner of speaking,” Piero continued, leaning over the microscope and peering down the sight, “This should not come as a surprise. It is the nature of your immunity that makes it remarkable. I believe Sokolov was able to harness it, without even realizing that he had succeeded.”

          With swift precision, Piero exchanged the slide containing Corvo's blood for another one nearby. He twirled a series of brass dials on the side of the microscope. Moments later, a change came over him, his shoulders lifting as if a great burden had slid off them. He turned on his heel to face the room, shadowed in the candlelight.

          “Earlier today, I re-examined the sample I used in Sokolov's ritual,” he said, an excited tension to his voice, “A sample from Bottle Street, if you are to be believed. It was then that I noticed something new. Something I have just now seen in your blood as well.”

          Corvo shifted, faintly alarmed, “Is that good?”

          “It is excellent,” Piero nodded enthusiastically, and it seemed to Corvo this was the most animated he had seen the inventor since the Hound Pits, “Your blood and the ritual sample now look identical to the wharf samples. Infected and healthy.”

          “In--” Corvo stopped short as he registered the word. A prickling feeling swept up the back of his neck.

          “What ritual?” Cecelia asked, but Piero raised a hand to indicate he would explain later. His eyes remained fixed on Corvo.

          “Before you ask, it is unlikely you are in any way contagious. The traces of plague in your blood seem mostly dead, or colonized, as the case may be.”

          Corvo, too shocked to form a question, simply watched Piero as the scientist gestured toward the surrounding lab.

          “Sokolov's-- _my_ new solution is no cure, and it is no elixir; it responds only to the presence of plague in the blood. It is, for lack of a better word, alive.”

          He paused, but Corvo merely stared and Cecelia seemed to be listening intently. He drew himself up a little straighter, taking on a professorial tone.

          “I knew,” Piero coughed lightly, covering his mouth, “that Sokolov had to have turned to the Void for answers. That was always his instinct. More brute force than science, really. Sokolov understood how the Void shapes, how it alters whatever it finds. He understood more than I ever could, I fear. I would have been lost had I not known what to look for.”

          “I don't see what this has to do with my blood,” Corvo said slowly.

          The corner of Piero's mouth tilted bitterly, a slight coldness edging his voice, “Wonders never cease. You sit there, watching me with the Outsider's eyes, and tell me _that_.”

          Corvo glared at him before turning away to a nearby chalkboard. The mark waited there, its smudged lines blooming over Piero's illegible writing.

          “Surely I don't need to explain your connection to the Void?” Piero shifted, reaching for his cane and leaning on it, “You draw from it even as you sit here. It flows through your veins. It is... protecting you, let us say, from within. That is what Sokolov discovered, the essential transformation of blood touched by the Void.”

          He continued in a low murmur, speaking as much to himself as to Corvo and Cecelia, “Of course, to observe the effect, prove its existence, he would need an open door to the Void. Something much more permanent than our little ritual. A living threshhold, like Corvo, or the next closest thing.”

          “What's close to living?” Cecelia prodded, her voice carefully light.

          The chill raking Corvo's spine washed suddenly over him, and his hand flinched involuntarily toward his forehead. A series of realizations flowed into place, painting a vivid mural of connections he should have made before now. Scattered whalebone in Sokolov's mansion on the bridge. The jars of rotting flesh in the Rudshore lab. The screaming shrine-- when had he forgotten it?-- and the fear in Sokolov's eyes _._ There was something else, he felt certain, an empty space in his memory of the shrine. It seemed impossible he could have forgotten it at all.

          For the first time that night, Piero hesitated, resting a hand on the desk and arching his fingers over a messy pile of notes.

          “Let us say,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “that Sokolov's methods have always been... unusual.”

          Corvo, still haunted by the crying of the shrine, pressed his hand against his mouth. He had heard the same cry early that morning, the dead whale calling mournfully out in the Void even as its own entrails spread over the grey sky. He felt vaguely unsettled to have ever thought Sokolov could be worshiping the Outsider. It was obvious the Tyvian had treated the Void as a means to an end.

          “But it works,” Cecelia sounded like she was struggling to keep up, “whatever Sokolov did. It stops the plague.”

          “That is accurate,” Piero replied quietly, “He was able to isolate the essence which neutralizes the disease, to translate it into what Corvo refers to as a 'new elixir.' This is a misnomer, however. The Void solution can only give the body the tools for survival. Its effectiveness depends on the patient. Those in the advanced stages of illness are unlikely to recover.”

          He shot an uneasy glance in Corvo's direction. Corvo, aware the focus had shifted to him, stowed his thoughts of the suffering whale in favor of examining Piero's face. The man seemed fragile but determined, a glimmer of hope buried in the shadowed corners of his eyes.

          “Can you replicate it?” Corvo asked.

          “Yes,” Piero adjusted his glasses, “I believe I can.”

          “Do it, then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So life... happened. Here is a long chapter as my apology. Also, I am desperately hoping Dishonored 2 (which I haven't had a chance to play yet, so no spoilers in the comments, please!) didn't explain the rat plague in any way. If it did, well, I guess we're more canon-divergent than usual.
> 
> Next chapter: Bottle Street.


	18. Distant Drums

          The next three days seemed to stretch themselves out in a series of disconnected moments. Piero required more blood to work from, and by the time he had enough, Corvo was faint and dizzy. Morning dawned sleepless for all three inhabitants of the old mill. Piero worked ceaselessly, apart from the occasional call for assistance. Vials of blood disappeared into a number of whirring contraptions. Solutions were brewed, tested and thrown aside. The attic ceiling dripped with condensation as clear liquids boiled on several burners. Piero switched between working on the samples and tinkering with his various machines, some of which rattled as if ready to fall apart. He seemed to disappear inside his own mind, replying to questions in grunts and single words.

          In the afternoon, overcome by exhaustion, Corvo laid down on a bench and slept for hours. Cecelia woke him at nightfall and they set to work repairing the generator in the basement, wrapping and patching stripped wires where the rats had chewed through. They took shifts throughout the night, alternating between wire repair, sleep and helping Piero in the lab. The ringing of timers chimed incessantly from above. Cecelia forced Piero to take a few hours' rest, promising to wake him if any of the timers went off. Corvo learned a short routine of which vials to switch from low burners to steam stills, and when. The early morning seemed to crawl until daybreak.

          On the second day, Corvo and Cecelia patched the last of the wires and restarted the generator. The lights flickered on, the candles were extinguished, and Piero's workshop grew almost bearable once more. Papers began to pile on the desk, Piero's scribbled notes growing frantic and smeared. Eventually, he wiped the chalkboards and moved onto those. Corvo understood none of the formulas, or the shorthand, but he could translate some of Piero's constant under-the-breath muttering.

          “Not cooperating,” Piero repeated to himself after hours of crossed-out forumulas, drawing a large mark down the length of a chalkboard, “Volatile and not cooperating.”

          There was no sign of Granny Rags or her rats. Corvo patrolled the yard several times over the course of the day, and all he found were pockets of black smoke which dissipated as he stared at them. Either Granny Rags had lost interest in Piero's work, or her wounds were even worse than they'd looked. Corvo hoped for the latter. The last thing he needed was a murderous witch at his heels.

          That night, Piero fumbled and dropped an empty bottle, and shattered glass filled the cracks in the floorboards. He cursed and carried on, allowing Corvo and Cecelia to clean the mess. Corvo held the dustpan as Cecelia swept, and stole a glance toward Piero to see a familiar tremor shaking through the scientist's hand. Piero covered it well, keeping his fingers in constant motion over dials and timers. If Cecelia noticed, she chose to remain silent.

          Corvo spent his sleep shift staring blankly at the boarded skylight, watching the shafts of moonlight peek through. In the late hours, the night seemed to fill with whispers, voices too vague to be familiar calling Corvo's name. He could not tell whether his exhausted mind was finally failing him, or if the cold curling into his limbs was the heavy pull of the Void. The noise did not cease, and Corvo found he could not ignore it. Sleep never came.

          He returned to the lab as the pale hues of sunrise colored the sky. He found the attic messier than he'd left it. Paper from the desk littered the floor, and books laid open on the bench, covered in thick lines crossing out old notes. Piero was slumped in his chair. His eyes were ringed in dark circles, and his hands shook relentlessly. Corvo hesitated in the doorway, and Piero stared at him with a bleak and unreadable expression.

          “Cecelia's gone to bed,” Corvo said for the sake of saying anything.

          “Good,” Piero whispered distractedly. He picked up a small bottle by the rim and held it up to the lamp. The liquid within was a sickly red-brown, which turned crimson as the light shone through. Corvo glanced at the farthest chalkboard. A series of numbers trailed off into simple tally marks, which had been partially erased. This was at least the twentieth solution.

          “This will either save my life,” Piero said, pouring half the meager contents of the bottle into a nearby mug, “or hasten my death, I truly cannot tell the difference anymore.”

          Corvo released a low sigh, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe, “I'm not laughing, Piero.”

          “Of course,” Piero picked up the mug, “No one has told a joke.”

          Corvo allowed a silent moment to build before asking quietly, “Did it pass the first round of tests?”

          “Yes, all of them. But the most important test is also the most obvious.”

          With that, he lifted the mug to his lips. He drank cautiously, swallowing as if trying determinedly not to choke. His face was a clear enough indicator of how the solution tasted. He set the mug back down, watching his own hand as he did so.

          “How long would it take,” Corvo asked, “in theory?”

          “You would have to ask Sokolov,” Piero said, gesturing agitatedly, “I am guessing at dosage based on the Crury samples. I am guessing at everything. I suppose, ideally, a concentrated dose could be solidified, but that application is infeasible considering--”

          “I get the idea,” Corvo said gently.

          Piero lapsed into a self-contained quiet once more, taking up a piece of chalk and heading for the nearest board. He used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the surface clean, then began scribbling a series of notes. Corvo took up a seat in the corner of the room, staying out of the way unless asked to help. Time crawled as the morning dragged on. Corvo worked to keep his mind empty, counting down each timer in his head until it rang. Eventually he lulled himself into a half-sleeping state. He had almost drifted off when Piero began to cough.

          It started softly, a harmless enough sound from a dry throat. Then, suddenly, there was a slick, hacking cough which sent Corvo flying to his feet. Piero covered his mouth with his arm, turning rapidly away from the desk. When he pulled his sleeve away from his face, a dark, shining spot stained the fabric. He groaned in frustration and shrugged out of his jacket, discarding it on the floor and turning immediately back to his work.

          “Piero--” Corvo began, but Piero waved a harsh hand without even turning to look.

          “Give it time,” he snapped, a desperate kind of anger warping his voice.

          There was little else to do. Over the next few hours, Corvo began to notice subtle changes in Piero's routine. In addition to his usual series of tests, Piero now seemed to be checking each new solution against the one he'd taken. His coughing persisted but did not worsen. By the time Cecelia returned to the lab, Piero's sleeves were flecked in spit and blood, but he seemed in better spirits.

          “Is everything alright in here?” she asked before she had even fully opened the door, “I thought I heard--”

          She was interrupted by a timely wheezing sound as Piero coughed into his elbow. He barely reacted, wiping his mouth clean on his shirt and returning his attention to the microscope. He adjusted the dials, utterly absorbed in work.

          Cecelia allowed the door to list open behind her as she reached for Corvo and gripped his arm. Her eyes had not left Piero.

          “Is he...?”

          “I don't know,” Corvo admitted in a whisper, “he hasn't spoken in hours.”

          “I can, if speech is what you'd prefer,” Piero called over his shoulder, his voice a low croak. He sank back in his chair and half-turned toward them, pulling off his glasses. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the back of his wrist, casting a bleary look around the lab.

          “Would you believe,” he allowed the shaky hand holding his glasses to hang over the arm of the chair, “I told Havelock I could do this? I was to assure the absolute rule of our new Empress. A cure for the plague, the adoration of Dunwall. Of the Academy.”

          He closed his eyes against the memory. The lab was painfully silent, punctuated by the ticking of a timer as it counted down. Piero breathed a slow sigh, replacing his glasses with some difficulty.

          “Knowledge,” he continued, voice tight, _“Knowledge,_ was what I wanted. What Sokolov wanted. To shine a light into the Void, to expose the secrets of the universe. But there is such a thing as too much light. Where I sought to illuminate, I burned a hole.”

          He swiveled his chair to gaze across the room, eyes searching the chalkboards and tracing the Outsider's mark. Cecelia's fingers dug into Corvo's arm.

          “Piero,” she said tersely, “you're not making sense.”

          “No?” he seemed slightly amused by the notion, “No, I suppose not. My apologies, I was... thinking out loud.”

          He pushed off with a foot, turning the chair around to fully face the lab. His eyes shone in the artificial light, glistening with exhaustion or emotion, Corvo could not tell which. Piero glanced warmly at Cecelia, offering her a weak smile which faded as his eyes traveled over Corvo.

          “I fear history will not thank me for this,” he said wryly, reaching out to stop the timer before it could ring, “but it does not matter now. My work is done.”

          He shut the timer off with a click. A sudden cough broke free of his lips, and he blocked it with his already reddened sleeve. Corvo waited as Piero collected himself, unsure he had heard correctly.

          “Done?” Corvo repeated as Cecelia's hand slid from his arm.

          Piero lifted a glass bottle from the table. It was filled with the same deep red liquid he had sampled hours before. He held it before him, the neck of the bottle catching the light as his hand trembled.

          “A remedy dependent upon contagion,” he said heavily, “Control. As promised.”

          Corvo released a breath and it curled into a disbelieving laugh. Beside him, Cecelia let out a muffled gasp of joy. Piero did not smile, but nodded as he placed the bottle on the work table beside the desk. His lips twitched, and Corvo thought he saw the edge of something like fear hiding just under the inventor's steady demeanor.

          “But that's amazing!” Cecelia nearly shouted, “Piero, you've actually done it!”

          “Yes,” Piero leaned an elbow on the work table, resting his head against his hand, “and now I would like very much to sleep.”

          He stifled a cough, and Corvo's eyes darted from the solution to Piero's haggard expression.

          “You're sure it works?” Corvo asked.

          “Beyond any doubt,” Piero's reply held a faint note of reserve, “Every test was successful. Every sample treated with this solution is healthy once more. Ah, I'll need the audiograph device. Cecelia, would you...?”

          He made a vague gesture toward the far corner of the room, where a beaten audiograph sat on the floor among piles of books and papers. Cecelia gave a quick hum of understanding and moved toward it. As soon as she turned her back, Piero looked sharply to Corvo. His glare was layered in fierce warning. Corvo closed his mouth and refrained from asking any further questions, settling for a critical frown.

          “Now,” Piero slid open a desk drawer and withdrew a blank audiograph card, “I will record my instructions for large batch production. It is imperative that you follow them to the letter.”

 

          Piero spent several hours recording and writing out his instructions. He kept the burners in production, slowly filling a small crate with cooled vials of elixir. He coughed the whole time, though it seemed to Corvo that the frequency of these fits tapered off toward nightfall. Cecelia was unflinchingly buoyant throughout the day, and Corvo could not tell whether her joy was honest or feigned. If she had any doubts, she was hiding them well.

          Once the audiographs, papers, and vials were safely rolled into a makeshift carry pack, Corvo helped Piero down the stairs and settled him into the chair by the stove. They shared a hurried meal without speaking. As soon as the dishes were piled atop the counter, Cecelia wrapped herself in a warm, moth-eaten coat, and prepared to leave the mill.

          “The Dead Eels still come and go from the old harbor,” she explained breathlessly, pulling on a pair of heavy boots as she leaned against the bed, “I don't think they usually cross the river, but it's a short trip to the Distillery District.”

          “They won't do it for free,” Corvo crossed his arms, unconvinced, “and they won't like the idea of doing favors for Slackjaw.”

          “As far as I know, they don't have anything _against_ him, either,” Cecelia replied lightly, “and they owe us.”

          The ease with which she said it caused Corvo to raise his eyebrow, “They owe you?”

          She looked up at him with transparent impatience. A few yards away, Piero let out a dry laugh. Corvo turned to stare.

          “Corvo, I would be interested to know,” Piero asked with a self-satisfied look, “where you imagined I was selling all those copper wires and river krust pearls?”

          Corvo did not answer him, too proud to concede the point. Cecelia apparently believed the issue to be settled, as she brushed past Corvo and moved toward the stairwell.

          “I'll be back as soon as I can,” she called over her shoulder, already descending the stairs and circling out of sight.

          The moment she was gone, a strange, bitter hush descended. Corvo turned to Piero, who seemed to tense in expectation of a reprimand. Trying to ease the friction in the air, Corvo moved close to the inventor and leaned against the kitchen counter. Piero's eyes were downcast, watching the cement floor.

          “You're still sick,” Corvo said quietly, careful to keep any hint of accusation from his voice. Piero gave a subtle nod, turning the handle of his cane in his palm.

          “As I said,” Piero sighed, voice wavering, “every _sample_ is healthy. The solution can only assist the immune system. It cannot repair it.”

          “Do you think it might work over time?"

          “I think... time is a cruel thing to need.”

          Corvo glanced down at him. Piero seemed to be working hard to keep his expression steady. With a soft shake of his head, Corvo laid a hand on Piero's shoulder.

          “You have to tell her.”

          “I fully intend to,” the reply was low and muttered, and Piero jerked his arm to free it from Corvo's grip, “for now, I would appreciate your silence on the subject.”

          Corvo withdrew his hand, closing it into a hesitant fist. He hovered in place for a few minutes, standing helplessly aside as Piero ignored him. Piero soon began to nod off, head hanging to one side, and Corvo backed quietly away. He moved through the kitchen, careful not to wake Piero, and began packing food and supplies into a burlap bag. Twice, he picked up a tin of fish only to stare blankly at it. He found himself wishing there were some way for Cecelia to stay away forever.

          When Cecelia finally did return, near sunset, she announced that she had secured safe passage for Corvo, and that he would be leaving that night. Their window for departure was narrowed by whaler patrols, so they would need to go soon. Piero roused himself and helped them pack the necessary supplies, cautious not to handle any of the food. The lab equipment took up a small trunk, the carry pack full of elixir was strapped securely to Corvo's back, and the burlap bag was laden with as much food as Cecelia and Piero could spare. Corvo carried each of them to the main doorway, leaden fear weighing his feet.

          By the time they had finished their preparations, the yard was spotted with moonlight and unusually silent. Piero shut off the wall of light, allowing for easier conversation. He waited in the grand entryway, just inside the shadow of the mill, leaning against the brick wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, clenching tight every time he smothered a cough. Corvo watched him closely, his grip on the bag of food so tight that his knuckles were white.

          “Are you going to be alright?” he asked, despite the inventor's fierce glare.

          “There is no need to worry yourself, Corvo. It is up to fate, now,” Piero's voice was carefully noncommittal. He looked away, staring across the yard to where Cecelia was removing the deadbolt from the front door. His glare softened somewhat, and he raised a hand to cover his lips as as a weak cough shook him.

          “It has been good,” he said decisively, “seeing you again.”

          The words came out pained and raw, blunted only by the catch in Piero's throat. They hung in the air until a swirl of cold wind swept through the yard. There was nothing else to say, but Corvo hesitated anyway, and after a long silence the bitter echo of Piero's words seemed to melt away.

          “I should thank you,” Piero murmured, so quiet that Corvo barely heard him, “for this last chance.”

          Corvo had no reply for that. There was a distant clang, and Cecelia wiped her hands on her coat before gesturing for Corvo. Piero pushed off from the wall and extended a shaking hand before Corvo's chest. Corvo grasped it and held it. Their eyes met, and for a moment it seemed as if Piero might say something more. But he merely bit his lip and shook his head, releasing Corvo's hand and limping hurriedly back into the mill. Corvo watched his retreating back.

          “Corvo!” Cecelia called from the outer wall, “Corvo, we have to go!”

          Piero's shadowy outline disappeared around a corner. Corvo stood a moment longer, running a thumb over the rough fabric balled in his hand. Then he turned on his heel, putting the mill behind him and walking toward the windswept darkness of Drapers Ward.

 

* * *

 

          The night was cloudless and cold. The water lapping the hewn stone docks was calm, the black rolls of the Wrenhaven reflecting the glitter of the moon. The sleeping river was cut by a small boat, slow and solitary as it approached the stone moorings. Corvo shifted restlessly, breathing in the chill night wind. Beside him, Cecelia waved to the boatsteer, one hand clutching her worn coat around her neck as the breeze threatened to take it. A thrumming sound bounced over the water as the boat's engine idled.

          “You know,” Cecelia turned to Corvo, breath visible in the cold, “after all of this, I'm going to convince Piero to make a run for it. Get out of Dunwall for good.”

          Corvo did not reply, instead watching the small boat bump against the docks. The engine whined down, and the man at the helm stood up, placing his hands on his hips. Cecelia caught Corvo's arm, and he glanced in her direction.

          “Corvo,” she smiled warmly up at him, voice muffled as she pulled the collar of her coat up around her chin, “I know this sounds strange, but I'm glad we ran into each other.”

          Guilt turned his stomach, but Corvo managed a small smile, “Likewise.”

          “You probably won't hear from us. We'll go somewhere secluded, maybe up north--”

          “Hey!” came a shout from the water, and Corvo and Cecelia both started. The boatsteer's dark outline waved impatiently at them, then gestured to the river beyond. Cecelia did not finish her sentence, instead drawing Corvo into a tight hug. Corvo returned the embrace as best he could while balancing the bag of food. Cecelia's soft hair pressed into his cheek.

          “Be safe,” he told her, muttering just above her ear, “And thank you.”

          Her hands ran reassuringly over his back before she pulled away, eyes watery over a tight expression, “You too. Good luck, Corvo.”

          He gave her a swift nod before lifting his mask and sliding it over his face. He hefted the trunk and descended the stairs onto the stone dock. As he secured his cargo in the back of the boat, the engine sputtered into gear. Corvo turned to see Cecelia give him a final wave. He raised a hand in response. She hesitated just a moment more, and then she was gone, hurrying away into the shadows of Drapers.

          “Hang on,” the man at the tiller said, “gotta turn a little sharp to get 'er the right way 'round.”

          The boat lurched, and Corvo grabbed the side of the little craft. He was dismayed to find it was made of flimsy metal, patched and re-soldered where his fingers dug in. He held tight as they made a dangerously hard turn, more than a little terrified when a spray of water splashed over the side of the boat and into his face. Before he could cry out, however, the boat righted itself, making a choppy start for the distant, twinkling glow of Clavering. Corvo took a deep breath, panting as he levelled a bewildered glare at the boatsteer. He had not yet released the cheap siding.

          “What?” the man, a short, muscular figure with a shaved head, grinned at him, “Did you think I'd put you in the river?”

          Corvo wiped his mask with a hand, clearing water from the lenses, “How long will it take to reach the Distillery District?”

          The boatsteer considered for a moment. He dug into a coat pocket and pulled out a spyglass, toying with it before extending it and laying it sideways across his knees.

          “Few hours,” he finally said, “Gotta dodge the Overseers, otherwise we'd make it in no time.”

          “Good. Avoid them at all costs.”

          “Right you are, sir,” the man said mockingly, “I was plannin' on steerin' straight into them.”

          Corvo was too tired to trade insults with a stranger, instead watching the faraway glimmer of the shore. Were the sun out, he might have been able to pick out the distillery's silhouette along the staggered roofline. It felt strange to think he'd been so close these last days. The distance still seemed insurmountable, somehow, despite the rush of water beneath the little boat. He felt as if he'd been away for years. The air filling his lungs took on the pungent sharpness of the Wrenhaven, purging the dusty haze of the mill and drawing up scenes from his last voyage on the river. His chest grew tight.

          “Can I ask you somethin'?” the boasteer lit a cigarette, and Corvo turned to face him, “You the one who went around killin' all the nobles last year?”

          “That's right,” Corvo said stiffly.

          “You work for Slackjaw now, yeah? I gotta tell you, the rumors don't sound good. Nobody's heard a peep outta Bottle Street for... shit, a week? Maybe more?”

          Corvo took this news in stride. If the distillery was quiet, it was possible the gang was still enforcing Sokolov's quarantine. There was also a much darker possibility, but Corvo did not want to think on that until he had to. At the very least, no one else had attacked the distillery.

          The boatsteer seemed to be keenly aware of Corvo's silence, and added hurriedly, “Not that they're missin' much, of course. Overseers chased everybody off the water a few days ago, probably even Slackjaw couldn't get a supply line runnin'. We can't even make it past the bridge, not since the Overseers closed off the city.”

          It took a beat for the words to sink in, and as they did, Corvo sat up straight, “What?”

          “Yeah, you ain't heard?” the breeze picked up, swirling over the boat, and the man sheltered his cigarette with a meaty hand, “Guess you've been inland. The High Overseer gave this big speech, sayin' Dunwall's lost to the Outsider and it's up to the Abbey to save us. Started sendin' Overseers out on Navy ships. Says he's... what's it... he's takin' them so the Abbey can use 'em.”

          Behind his mask, Corvo's eyes were wide, “Is he out of his mind?”

          The man let out a low chuckle, “Well, nobody stopped him, or anythin'. Word is he's just bluffin' to get the other Isles to lift the blockade. The whole thing's gone to shit, we're lucky if nobody starts firing on us.”

          Corvo shifted to keep his back to the breeze, absently untangling his hair from his mask, “Why aren't they letting anyone past the bridge?”

          “Security. The High Overseer moved himself into Dunwall Tower, so they're tryin' to keep him safe. Though, I guess you know how that worked out for the Lord Regent.”

          “I do.”

          A swift hush fell as the boatsteer presumably remembered who he was talking to. He coughed audibly and turned his attention to his cigarette, shifting the boat's direction. Corvo braced himself as the craft tilted into the turn, taking a moment to sift through the new information.

          It was no great shock that Martin had retreated to Dunwall Tower, but seizing military vessels in the name of the Abbey was a clear enough signal of intent. Martin was prepared to go to war. Corvo fell back into a well-worn question, wondering whether Daud had attacked the Overseers. If he had, it would explain Martin's sudden escalation.

          Regardless of the cause, it was all a welcome reprieve for Bottle Street. With the Overseers busy on the river and Daud otherwise occupied, they might steal enough time to recover from the plague. Once that was accomplished, Corvo reasoned, he and Slackjaw could plan their next move.

          His thoughts pulled to a stop, stuck on the name and turning it over. He drew in a fast breath, blocking out his own imagination. He would find Slackjaw alive. There was simply no other possibility.

          “Hey,” the boatsteer said, voice so low it was hard to make out against the whine of the engine, “comin' up on an Overseer ship, I'm takin' the long route but keep it quiet, alright?”

          Corvo turned toward the bridge. The distant structure itself was invisible in the darkness, its floodlights long since extinguished. There were faint whisps of light over the water, tiny glows which could have been any small craft. Between them, the huge black shadow of a Navy ship glided and blotted out the horizon, its only identifying feature the crown of light illuminating its upper deck. The sounds of the river seemed to amplify as Corvo focused on them, and he could just make out the tinny strains of the Overseers' music.

          “They're far off,” Corvo muttered.

          “Close enough for me,” hissed the other man, “Now kindly shut your mouth.”

          The little craft was in the process of a slow turn upriver, and the Distillery District seemed to slide away to one side. Corvo tapped his heel impatiently. As the boat headed into the wind, the breeze fluttered through his shirt and sent a chill over his skin. He adjusted the carry pack on his back, wincing as the vials inside let out a soft clink. Bottle Street had waited a week for their cure. They would have to wait a few hours longer.

 

* * *

 

          The sky was just beginning to lighten, stars fading into the pale amber of sunrise, as the little boat floated into the shallows beside Clavering and bumped gently into the gravel shore. Corvo was on his feet in an instant, head spinning a little as the sleepless days caught up to him. He shouldered the sack of food and lifted his trunk. As he set foot on the shore, the weight of the surrounding quiet settled over him. There was not a single sound of life from the roads above. He glanced up the sea wall, and over the ruined bridge.

          Behind him, the sounds of an engine being thrown into reverse echoed over the water. The boat pulled away from the shore, disappearing back into the new day without a word from its pilot. Corvo was struck by the familiarity of the moment, as he set a determined pace for the stairs up the sea wall. His heart took up a rapid, pounding rhythm. The last time he had climbed these shattered stone steps, the Outsider had whispered coy words of warning. He no longer found the deity's absence jarring, he realized as he crested the final stair into the abandoned street, but the absolute quiet of the district was overwhelming. Even the watchtower stood motionless, its whale oil long since depleted.

          Corvo put his head down, moving as quickly as he could while weighed down by the supplies. He walked without thinking, and as he passed under the low arch just before Bottle Street, felt a heavy kind of relief drag his heel. Whatever he would find on the other side of the distillery's metal door, he had made it back. Why that should matter to him as a point of pride, he wasn't sure, but the mere sight of the rude grafitti over the distillery entrance was enough to repair some of his splintered nerves. He made his way to the shadowed doorway and set down the trunk, lifting a fist and banging hard on the scratched metal.

          “Hey!” he shouted, and his voice rang more desperate than rough, “Can anyone hear me?”

          There was no answer, but Corvo barely waited before trying again, hitting the door harder this time.

          “ _Anyone?”_ he called as the clang of his knocking echoed and died.

          He waited for a seemingly endless minute, slamming the door with his fist until, finally, he heard footsteps from within.

          “Who's out there?” came a somewhat familiar voice from just inside. Corvo lifted his hand from the door, splaying it on the bricks beside. He leaned on his outstretched arm, letting out a shaking sigh.

          “It's me,” he shouted back, “Let me in.”

          “Corvo?” the voice replied in total disbelief, “Sweet _shit,_ we all thought you was dead!”

          Corvo let out a weak, humorless laugh, “Not quite.”

          The door opened, and Corvo pulled back from the wall. Inside the entryway stood Bash, the man who'd sought him out in the sewers beneath Slackjaw's apartment. He looked as if he was barely keeping himself upright, his eyes ringed in shadow and his dark skin taking on a sickly hue in the early light. Corvo cut him off before he could ask questions.

          “I have the new elixir,” he picked up the trunk and moved authoritatively forward, forcing Bash to step back to allow him onto the distillery grounds. Bash's eyes went wide, growing misty as he pushed the door shut.

          “Thank the fuckin' stars,” Bash's words came out in a whine, “That Sokolov bastard came through?”

          “Yes,” Corvo said, edging past the young man and rounding the corner into the outer yard, “He did.”

          The yard was empty, its bloody battle scars washed away by rain. Beyond the stone arch, two men on the distillery's front porch stood at attention, evidently guarding the building's occupants. As they caught sight of Corvo, one of them grasped the other roughly by the arm.

          “Give me a casualty report,” Corvo said stiffly, and Bash fell in step beside him.

          “Thirteen dead of plague,” Bash replied, and Corvo could not help but notice the young man had altered his tone of voice as if he were speaking to Slackjaw, “Almost everybody's got it by now. Things started to get really rough 'bout two days ago. Say, uh... where _is_ Sokolov, anyhow?”

          “Dead,” Corvo said bluntly, and did not elaborate.

          “Well,” Bash wisely cleared his throat and changed the subject, “if his fancy new elixir works, it'll be a blessing. Old Jamie probably don't have long to live, and now it looks like Slackjaw--”

          Corvo stopped sharply, turning so abruptly that Bash flinched in surprise. They were close to the front porch now, just near enough for Corvo to hear the men on guard duty cease all conversation at the mention of their boss's name.

          “What about him?” Corvo ground out, and the voice which filtered out through his mask was barely his own. Bash immediately looked to the ground, head hung at an apologetic angle.

          “Fuck, I-- I forgot you was--” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I'm sorry. There ain't no easy way to say it. I don't think he's got much time.”

          Corvo barely waited to hear the end of the sentence. He charged toward the distillery, taking the front steps two at a time. He deposited the trunk and the bag of food on the porch. One of the men standing by unlocked the front door and moved swiftly out of the way. Corvo threw the door open, allowing it to bang against the bricks. The smells of the distillery greeted him, but they were not the ghostly, rosy scents he had struggled to set aside during his time in Drapers. The air in the old foyer was stale and tinged with rot.

          Corvo drew in a last breath of the cool morning. He had not come this far to falter now. He stepped through the creaking threshold and into the silent shroud of the distillery.


	19. Still Burning

          The old distillery was heavy with the weight of the plague. Corvo could sense it from the entryway, the taut pull of despair coiled through the place like tangled thread. Weak light filtered in through the gaps in the high ceiling, and though the electric lamps flickered as always, the main floor was oppressively dark. There was a stillness to the air, a funereal hush that caused Corvo's palms to sweat.

          The clunk of his bootheels seemed to fill the entire building as he stepped onto the metal stairwell. Below his feet, a sea of faces stared up, despondent as they took in his mask and unfamiliar clothes.

          The gang was huddled together in groups on the ground floor, staying warm under shared blankets around the stills. There were maybe thirty men left. Corvo heard his name ripple through them, repeated louder and louder. He scanned the crowd, making a fast roster of bloodied faces. They watched him as if he might disappear at any moment. Slackjaw was not among them. Corvo hesitated only a moment, glancing across the main floor. The door leading to Slackjaw's office stood closed and unguarded.

          “I can help,” he said, sliding the carry pack off his shoulder. He made his way down the iron stairs.

          The unnatural quiet persisted as he unwrapped the elixir vials, occasionally punctuated by coughing and moans. Hardly anyone spoke, except a few of the younger boys admitting they had expected never to see him again and thanking him for returning at all. A few of them stood and shuffled over to him. No one questioned him, not about the elixir and not when he began to give them orders.

          “Line up,” he told them, and there was a small commotion as the men stumbled and collided. They formed an awkward, unsteady line, leaning on each other for support. Corvo measured each dose as Piero had instructed, using the cap of the vial as a cup. The boys waited restlessly for their turns, assisting each other when shaking hands prevented someone from drinking. Corvo was relieved to see friendly faces among them-- Fix, still upright and strong, steadying Bit as the younger boy choked down his elixir; Bash edging sheepishly down the stairs to offer help. Some of the men Corvo had fought alongside during the whaler attack nodded in respect as they drew near. He made a vague promise to himself to begin learning their names. He was well past the pretense of mercenary work, now.

          Once the line had dispersed, Corvo was guided to corners where the rest of the gang waited, unmoving and blinded by blood. Bash eventually pointed him toward Old Jamie, who was propped against a wall near the reserve cage, isolated and beginning to draw flies. Corvo knelt beside him. Within a moment, Fix appeared at his elbow, freckled face pale beneath his shock of red hair.

          “You think he'll make it?” Fix whispered. His grey eyes were colder and sharper than Corvo remembered them in the artificial light.

          “I don't know,” Corvo admitted, “But it's worth trying.”

          Fix's gaze was piercing, “You'll want to see the boss.”

          Corvo let out a huff of air through his nose as he screwed the cap onto an empty vial. He was thankful for the barrier of his mask. Fix was watching him closely, silent as Corvo set the vial aside and withdrew a fresh one from the pack.

          “I will,” Corvo replied evenly, “once I'm done out here.”

          A hand, thin and trembling, shot out and grabbed Corvo by the shoulder. Corvo looked up at Fix and froze. The boy's face was lined with flat anger and buried grief. His wide eyes peered unflinchingly into the twisted metal of Corvo's mask.

          “He's been calling for you,” Fix murmured, “I ain't never heard Slackjaw beg, but he spent last night begging for you. Cursing the Outsider, cursing the plague.”

          Corvo's stomach went suddenly weightless.

          “He ain't himself now,” Fix's voice wavered slightly as he let go of Corvo's arm, “So it's my turn to beg. Go.”

          Corvo stood unevenly, gripping a vial of elixir and staring down at Fix. He took a step back toward the metal stairway, and Fix wrapped his hands in the cloth of the carry pack. He lifted it reverently, as if to suggest he would take over the task of handing out elixir. Corvo did not stop to consider whether this was wise. He turned and hurried up the stairs, moving quickly across the distillery floor. His hand fumbled around the doorknob as he threw open the hall door.

          Out of sight of the gang, Corvo found himself hesitating, staring down the length of the hall with his heartbeat slamming in his ears. Dread pulled at him, anchoring him momentarily to the spot. He resumed pace with an uneven breath. The hall seemed to stretch, longer and darker, as he walked the distance to Slackjaw's office. The metal door listed open on its hinges, visible from around the corner. Corvo stepped cautiously forward, throat closing involuntarily as the sick smell of bile reached the hall.

          The office was dark. The ceiling light had been turned off, and the solitary desk lamp dimmed to a weak glow. The floor was littered with empty bottles. Someone had pushed the cot across the room. It now rested against the wall between the old elixir still and the doorway. A body was sprawled across it, barely identifiable in the low light, feet twitching sluggishly toward the door. The figure stirred as Corvo entered the room.

          “What?” came a weak voice, so broken and mangled that Corvo stopped to grip the metal doorframe _,_ “Who's there?”

          The sharp metal of the frame was cold in Corvo's palm, “It's me.”

          There was a brief silence, and Corvo could hear labored, shallow breathing, underscored by a persistent wheeze. Then came a raking cough, and a faint laugh.

          “Corvo...” Slackjaw shifted beneath a blanket, trying to sit up, “I knew you'd be back--”

          He broke off into a violent coughing fit, the sounds from his throat both ragged and phlegm-filled. Corvo pried his fingers from around the bars of the doorframe and moved across the room, side-stepping discarded bottles. He bent over the desk lamp and clicked it up to full strength. The surface of the desk was illuminated, and Corvo found himself staring down at Slackjaw's pistol, clean and presumably loaded. He turned to face the cot and nearly dropped his vial of elixir.

          The man before him bore no resemblance to the fierce fighter Corvo had last seen. Slackjaw was curled up on his side, leaning his head and shoulders over the edge of the cot. Blood dripped from his lips, seeping into a dark, glistening spot in the floorboards. His beard was stained black over his chin. His bleary eyes searched for Corvo above deep bruises marked by twin crimson smears. He was down to his undershirt and trousers, presumably to combat the heat of fever. In the pale light, his skin appeared almost grey. He mustered a smile, flashing bloody teeth, and drew a twitching hand over his lips.

          “You--” he bit back another cough, “--took your damn time.”

          Corvo found he had no language with which to reply. His fingers shook as they traveled over his mask and unclasped it. He let it fall, and it clattered off the desk to land in Slackjaw's favorite chair. He could not tear his eyes from the gaunt ruin of Slackjaw's face. He fumbled with the elixir vial, trying several times to unscrew the cap before the seal finally gave.

          “I told them shadow things, when they came whisperin',” Slackjaw was muttering, his voice a faint croak as he tried to push himself upright, “I said you was comin' back. Slackjaw ain't never-- wrong.”

          “We had a deal,” Corvo told him, struggling to pour the elixir without spilling it. Some of the precious solution splashed over his fingers, but he managed to fill the somewhat dented cap.

          “I knew you wouldn'... leave me...”

          Slackjaw's speech trailed off into staggered breathing, and Corvo's teeth clenched. He turned in time to see Slackjaw try and fail to fight off another coughing fit, gripping the edge of the cot. His body contorted and lurched with every wracking inhale until one of them caught, causing him to retch. Black bile landed wetly on the office floor, and Slackjaw gasped for air. With a final heave, he collapsed forward, eyes rolling shut and face burying itself against the blankets. His hand fell limply over the side of the cot to rest on the floor. He let out a moan that sounded more frustrated than pained.

          Corvo cast a long glance over the cot, taking a moment to consider his approach. He paused to right an overturned beer glass on the desk, balancing the open vial within. He made his way gingerly across the room, the cap of elixir cradled in his hand.

          At the close end of the cot lay a small pillow, coated in blood and vomit. Corvo slid it to the floor and sat down in its place. The cot cracked and complained at the added weight. Beside him, Slackjaw was breathing more evenly, though every other inhale was punctuated by a low groan. Corvo watched the rise and fall of his shoulder. The bare skin, marked by the faded lines of a tall ship, shone with sweat. Without thinking, Corvo lifted his hand and placed it over the old tattoo. Slackjaw's skin was hot beneath his palm. Corvo pulled at his arm.

          “Are you with me?” Corvo asked softly, and Slackjaw tilted his head in a slow nod. His hair, tangled and coated with grease, brushed the side of Corvo's leg. Corvo watched him closely, speaking with deliberate emphasis.

          “Listen to me. I have the new elixir. It's a _cure._ I just need you to sit up.”

          Slackjaw let out a noise that might have been a laugh, “An' I'm... High Overseer.”

          Corvo leaned closer, “Trust me.”

          There was no response but a low wheeze. Corvo tightened his grip on the man's arm, digging his thumb insistently into the hard line of Slackjaw's shoulderblade.

          “Get up,” Corvo lowered his voice, “Or do you want your boys to fight Daud on their own?”

          This earned a snarl from Slackjaw. He worked fruitlessly to wrench his arm free of Corvo's grasp. He drew his hand up from the floor, curling it into a fist. He banged it lightly off the frame of the cot.

          “Fuck... you,” he spat.

          Corvo considered the expletive a victory, loosening his hold, “Who would have thought? Slackjaw playing the coward.”

          Slackjaw gave an abrupt shout and pushed off from the cot. He managed to raise himself onto one elbow, hands quaking with effort. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, slowly leveraging himself into a seated position with his back to Corvo. He sat upright for a moment, his weight resting on his arms. Then he swayed and fell suddenly backwards.

          Corvo leaned forward, allowing Slackjaw to fall against his chest. He wove his hand around Slackjaw's middle, bracing his palm against the man's sternum and pulling him up as gently as he could. Slackjaw slumped into him, head lolling back into the crook of Corvo's neck, his weak breath hot and foul. His lungs heaved beneath Corvo's hand. His undershirt was soaked through with sweat and blood, and Corvo could feel the fever rising from his unwashed hair in waves.

          “Corvo,” he panted, “I can't-- I ain't gonna--”

          “Drink this,” Corvo interrupted him, holding the cap of elixir out of the way as Slackjaw coughed.

          Slackjaw did as he was asked, leaning his head forward as Corvo tilted the cap. He swallowed, then choked. He coughed hard, flecks of blood flying from his lips. His hand reached up to grasp Corvo's wrist where it lay across his chest.

          “Hey... Corvo...”

          “I'm here.”

          Slackjaw made a quiet sound that was almost plaintive, “Your elixir... tastes like rat piss.”

          Corvo gave a soft huff, humoring him, “Makes it only marginally worse than your whiskey.”

          “Shit--” Slackjaw coughed around faint laughter, “I'm dyin' and you... gotta insult me like this. I'm real hurt, Corvo.”

          Slackjaw's voice descended into a coarse whisper as his throat gave out. He fell silent, and the weighty darkness of the office seemed to swallow all sound. Corvo tossed the empty cap onto the desk, where it spun across the wood and came to a stop beside the pistol. Slackjaw's grip on his wrist remained firm, and Corvo found he was too exhausted to extricate himself just yet. Without much thought, he shifted to press his back against the wall, easing Slackjaw down into a comfortable position across his legs. He leaned his head back, hitting the wall with a light thud. Slackjaw made an incoherent noise, his breath gurgling in the back of his throat.

          Corvo allowed himself a moment's stillness, slowly breathing in the rancid smells of the office. The furious momentum he had carried since the storm seemed to leave him all at once. His limbs ached, and his eyes, for all their Void-black appearance, felt dry and human as ever. He closed them, drawn by the lull of overdue sleep.

          He wondered how it would look to the rest of the Bottle Street Boys, as he sat with Slackjaw's head pillowed on his legs. He let out a tired sigh, deciding he no longer cared. There was no room for bruised pride or fragile trust, now. Slackjaw _was_ dying. The broken rhythm of his breathing and the blood darkening the floorboards were unassailable truths. Corvo could only hope Piero's elixir would do its work. A nervous shiver worked its way down his arms. His fingers twitched atop Slackjaw's chest, and the hand around his wrist tightened by way of reply.

          There was a bleak honesty to that, Corvo thought as his mind drifted closer to unconsciousness. After all of the chaos they had survived, it was here, on a creaking cot in the grasp of the plague, that the truth had finally unfurled. A thousand irreversable glances had already passed between them, but only now did the wordless confession ring clear. It was spoken in the way Slackjaw's shaking fingers dug into Corvo's skin, answered by the pressure of Corvo's palm over the erratically racing heart. It echoed through Corvo's head like a long-remembered song, pleading voicelessly in the closing warmth of sleep. _Don't go._

 

_Something was burning. The smell of smoke roused Corvo. He opened his eyes, slow to shake off the comfort of slumber, and turned his head. His blurry confusion turned swiftly to sinking awe._

_Every sense told him he was in the Void, but the Void was **wrong.** Where pale light ought to have shone was nothing but a featureless night. The darkness pressed in on all sides, its depths made occasionally, impossibly, blacker by drifting shapes as they twirled and faded. He looked down and spread his arms instinctively as he found himself floating in the emptiness. The Void held him in place, flowing around him like a gentle wind._

_Far below him, soft breezes carried pale dust and ash in lazy patterns. No remnants of Dunwall appeared in the murk. Corvo felt a stirring unease. A lone cry sounded, distant and distorted. Corvo recognized it immediately. It was the whale whose grisly fate he'd witnessed the last time he'd walked the Void. The sound was faraway and vague. It faded quickly, giving way to the eerie quiet._

_Corvo waited for a few moments, half-expecting the cold voice or the frozen touch. As the hush stretched on, he felt increasingly certain something was gravely wrong. How had he arrived here, if the Outsider had not beckoned? He took a tentative step forward, though nothing but blackness waited below his feet. The smoke shifted beneath him, and Corvo nearly fell backwards in surprise as a solid surface materialized under his outstretched foot. He took another step, and the Void followed suit. Emboldened, he walked a few paces. The curling smoke gathered with each footfall, stretching out into a facade of old cobblestone._

_Corvo took up a steady pace, and the Void rose around him in wave of grey and white, settling into a shadowy image of a city street. Corvo moved past alleyways and doors as the lines of the scene grew solid and real. The sight turned familiar with a sudden snap of clarity. He was walking up Clavering toward Holger Square. Motion caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see a shadow move slowly past. He stumbled to a stop, and as he did the Void seemed to come alive. The street was clean and bright, open as it had been before the plague. Voices rang out, accompanied the sound of railcars rattling through the archways. Children laughed, and where Corvo had seen one shadow he now saw dozens, their dark forms indistinct as they walked by._

_Then, suddenly roaring, the whale's call rattled through the street scene, sending rippling shimmers through the illusion. It was much closer than before, and now accompanied by a sickening pull in Corvo's bones. He staggered as the call reverberated around him. Its echo grew more and more alien with each return, and Corvo drew in a sharp breath as he made sense of the change. It was no longer a whale call. It was the crying of a child._

_Unsure of what to do, Corvo lifted his hand, where the mark was shining and gold. He formed a fist, glancing uncertainly over the haunted scene before him. He waited. The scream rang out once more, and Corvo closed his eyes as he winced, willling the mark to take him in the direction of the sound._

_The solid ground crumbled away beneath him, but his progress was slow and hazy. He was overwhelmed by a sudden calm, his thoughts growing muddied and jumbled. There was an intrusive push in his mind, a firm desire that he forget what he was searching for. Darkness began to burn the edges of his thoughts. Corvo struggled against it. He had to find the child. He had to protect the child. That much he knew for certain, and he clung to the notion as hard as he could. The insistent dark crowded closer, numbing his skin. Corvo thrust his marked hand forward, drawing himself toward the voice, and his fingers brushed soft fabric. He reached, closing his hand around the space, and felt a fleeting warmth. He was almost there, he knew, if he could only reach a bit further._

_He felt a thinning of the Void around him, a strain that resonated through his bones with terrifying gravity. Vertigo crawled up his legs, and his stomach turned. The mark flashed as he opened his eyes. Around him, the inky darkness was racing by in whirls, smoke blurring into a grey streak across his vision. The mark hissed and spit as it began to burn his skin. He fought to regain control, wrestling his hand toward himself to force it to close. His throat grew tight as pressure closed around him like a smothering weight._

_A firm grip closed around his wrist, just beneath the smoking mark. The cascading haze of the Void smoothed itself into stillness. The white hand did not release him, and Corvo turned only to pull back in shock._

_The face staring back at him was unmoving and empty. Its dark eyes were hollow, its skin shell-white and cracked across like glass. The thin figure was clothed in white, and torn by jagged holes exposing the same shimmering blackness Corvo had once seen in his mark. Her dark hair was held back by a tattered ribbon. Corvo barely had time to shout in horror before the Void rushed in and surrounded them. The child in white was swallowed rapidly by the consuming dusk, and the last sensation Corvo felt before waking was the slender fingers releasing his wrist one by one._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is extremely late, and here is why:  
> Basically, I have gone back and re-written large pieces of Chapters 1-6, editing tone, some out of character speech, and clarifying plot details. Chapter 2 and 3, in particular, are much cleaner and stronger now. Do you need to read those re-writes to understand the plot? No, not at all. They are mostly for my pride and to make the story a bit more accessible to new readers.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, as always!


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